Reunion
by Fins-Best-Friend
Summary: In serious need of reviews is it just bad or do people not feel like writing?. Summary in Prologue. JMOC. Not good at short summaries. Just trust me on this one. Rated T just to be safe. Two new chapters!
1. Prologue

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Summary: Seventeen years ago, John Munch fell in love. He was happier than he had ever been – even considering his job working in the stressful world of homicide – until she was ripped from his life, resulting in the furtherance of his . . . well . . . search of love in all the wrong people. But in the waning months of 2003 (so he fell in love 17 years before 2003), that rip gets mended and brings with it the shock and – could it be – joy of one of our favorite detective's life. However, the rip has changed John – events of the past seventeen years have all but destroyed his chances to ever completely trust again and 'the shock' is hardly any more emotionally together herself. Will John break through his past to help 'the shock' and her mother or will he break down himself? Or both? JMOC Takes place right after Serendipity.

Yes, I know I'm Fin's best friend, and this is a Munch story. But there's plenty of Fin in this one, so I don't feel completely disloyal. First real shot at fanfiction. Don't hesitate to criticize, just keep the flames to yourselves . . .

Disclaimer: I do not own Law and Order: SVU or any other of the Law and Order spin-offs or any of their characters. They belong to Dick Wolf, who has enough money to own them. I own Bowan, Zita, and most, if not all, of the French-sounding names. FYI, I am not prejudice against the French, France, or brie. I just needed a foreign country whose language I, at least, partially spoke.

* * *

_In the criminal justice system, sexually-based offences are considered especially heinous._

_In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.

* * *

_

**Prologue**

They had made it. They were safe, at last. It felt good, except for a nagging feeling of dread in the pits of their stomachs.

Bowan and Zita Plouvin had been living in Paris until a week ago, when Bowan, Zita's mother had decided that enough was enough, took her daughter, and returned, finally, to Baltimore and then to New York City, Zita's birthplace. No more would they suffer under Pierre's heel. The past seventeen years for Bowan and the last seven years for Zita had been a nightmare. The rapes had been consistent, the suffering hidden, but perpetual. Of course the suffering had been hidden; Pierre would never have risen to such power in the French Parliament if his atrocities had been discovered.

But that was all going to change now. Bowan wondered if he would remember her. Of course he would. She had been his partner on the force in Baltimore nineteen years ago and his lover for the last two months she had spent in the US. She had been seventeen years younger than him, but love was love regardless of age. She had not changed _that_ much, aside from the light wrinkles and slightly-graying hair she was sure she would not have had if not for her father, an Irish diplomat, arranging her marriage with Pierre. Political arranged marriages were hardly heard of phenomenons, but were alarmingly prevalent for those who knew what doors to listen through. He would remember her – he would have to be an amnesiac not to. Naturally, showing up at his new SVU precinct with the daughter she had never told him about would shock the conspiracy theories right out of him, but Zita would grow on him (and the lack of conspiracy theories would not hurt the concentration of any of his fellow detectives, either). They did not look the same, but their mannerisms and personalities were so much alike, apart from the paranoid conspiracy theories – the same sardonic grin, the same look-over-the-rims-of-the-glasses stare (when she actually wore her glasses instead of contacts), the same wit, same dry humor that made Bowan long for the love she had been forced to leave behind in Maryland. It had been that humor the morning after that brought Zita through the ordeal of each horrible night – waking up from unconsciousness, trying not to cry on the floor beside the master bedroom's four-poster bed, curled up in a ball from the pain, trying to forget what had happened. That and Etienne, her bodyguard, best friend, and main father-figure, even though he was only old enough to be her older brother. Not that Zita needed a bodyguard. She could easily fend for herself – she was a member of an elite French detective squad and had been a part of or led more undercover operations, often several at a time, than she cared to count, even some for Interpol. Her mother could not have been more proud. It pained the teenager, however, that she was this master detective – the youngest ever to be honored by the French police two years ago, at fifteen – who still could not change what she and Bowan went through. Why her mother was so proud, she would never risk a guess. She could fight off Pierre, maybe even his thugs if they came at her unarmed one at a time, but it would only make things worse. However, deep down, she always felt like a coward, something she had always despised. Her mother told her not to, that she could not help her situation, could not help that they were kept apart from each other, locked in rooms so they could not help each other, but words did nothing to halt her self-contempt or quell her anger at herself and Pierre and the friends he brought to his little "parties".

The elite squad Zita belonged to did not specialize in sex crimes – or any other crime, for that matter. They specialized in all crimes; it was what made them elite, able to do anything. No one in the squad knew what went on in the Plouvin homestead and there was no one she could tell anywhere else that would make any difference without causing innumerable problems for them and her mother. So she set about doing something about it on the side. She had not gotten into the French police because she was pretty, though she was, just like her mother. She had been accepted because she was smart – book and street. With an IQ of well over 175, it had been cake to get into online courses at Harvard Law. She would tackle Pierre on her own in a courtroom and show all of France, all of the world, what the man really looked like under the Armani suits and over-gelled hair.

Pierre and his cronies were oblivious to any of this, of course. The only ones in on the secret were too loyal to Zita and Bowan to tell anyone what really went on during the seventeen-year-old's overnight "school trips" and "websurfing." She could take care of herself, but her tag-along bodyguard provided an ample and smokescreen for the ones who would punish Zita and Bowan for the teenager's night job, not to mention a welcomed and knowledgeable companion during the long, late stakeouts.

Bowan could feel her confidence returning. She had lived in New York City before moving to Maryland to work in the Baltimore Homicide Unit. Her beloved Big Apple had changed, certainly, as had she, but the city was welcoming her back. She had been born in Ireland but the metropolis had adopted her as its own. She could only hope John would do the same, now that he had started working here. She had promised him hundreds of times that she would never leave him, never make him cry. And she had gone right ahead and done it, regardless of whether or not her doing so had been of her own volition. Her father and Pierre had not allowed her to answer the phone until the caller ID had confirmed that it was an acceptable identity on the other end. She had not been allowed to receive or read, much less reply to, any letters that her father, Pierre, or his cronies had not looked through first. She was a prisoner in her own life. They had told John, after he had managed to get a contact number from a UN official that owed him a favor, that she had forgotten him and had fallen madly in love with and married a handsome, twenty-seven-year-old, strapping French diplomat from Paris named Pierre Plouvin that could give her everything she wanted, unlike a slightly-wrinkled, forty-two-year-old, skinny detective from Baltimore that could not afford a townhouse, much less diamond jewelry. It had broken her heart, as it had most likely (and had, by the way) broken his.

Butterflies began to flutter about in her stomach as she and her daughter walked silently, side by side, on the bustling sidewalk. What would he say when she strode in with a teenager in tow? He would probably be furious with her, though he would never show it in front of his colleagues. John hated few things more than a liar, which was exactly what her husband (in the loosest sense of the word) and father had made her out to be. They had made her hurt him and stab herself in the heart while she was at it. It was time to make amends and at least ask for forgiveness. But what if he would not give it?

_No! Don't think about that! You need to get you and Zita to a safe place where Etienne and Xavier_ (Bowan's bodyguard) _won't be at risk protecting you. They risked enough just coming with you. You need to get to the precinct, regardless of John's reaction. This is bigger than your past. Only a few more blocks, now._ she told herself, picking up the pace slightly, eager to get out of the late fall chill. Leather keeps out wind, her eye.

Zita was absorbed in the feel of this magnificent city. It was more than she had ever dreamed. True, during her frequent visits to the UN with her mother and Pierre or with her numerous diplomatic friends, she had seen some of New York, but you could not get a real look at the city or its inhabitants from the back seat of a Bentley. Walking the streets of the city was an all-new experience. Paris was beautiful, sure, but New York was . . . New York! The Big Apple! The city nicknamed after a fruit! How cool was that?

Bowan had not told her daughter everything about where exactly they were going and why, but Zita had enough snooping and interrogations experience to have picked up on a few details her mother had unwittingly let slip. She had always known in her heart that a monster like Pierre could not be her father, and she, having listened to her mother moan in pain in her sleep about someone named John, begging him to forgive her and bring her back home. She searched through her mother's old diaries for clues to her parental history and had unearthed this John person as her main suspect. As it turned out, her mother had been dating (secretly, of course) her partner from the Baltimore Homicide Unit, a man by the name of, surprise suprise, _John_ Munch. He seemed like a nice enough guy and he had obviously been very serious about Bowan (Zita had had to skip over many parts in Bowan's diary because they were just a little too info-laden). They had been together during the right time period for him to be her father, but Pierre had married Bowan during the right time as well, so she could not narrow her list down to just John. He was Jewish and Pierre was French. Zita's Jewish friends (and she had many) had always said that she looked too Jewish to be _completely_ of Western European descent. More Jewish than French. She hoped with all her heart that they were right.

And it was because Bowan and Zita were absorbed in these thoughts that they did not see the man lurking under the cover of the shadows that they were walking past on their way through an alley until he grabbed them both and pulled them under the shadows with him.

The last thing Zita saw before blacking out was a horrifyingly familiar face.

The man's low, raspy whisper grated on the girl's eardrums as he spoke. "Tu peux course, mais tu ne peux pas cacher, petite souris."

Perhaps the dread in their stomachs had been justified, after all.

* * *

Enter Law and Order Theme

Cut to a commercial.

* * *

Translation: You can run, but you can't hide, little mouse.

Pronunciation: tyoo poh corse may tyoo nay poh pah cahsh, pooteet sooreese.


	2. Chapter 1

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

**Chapter 1**

"But what if it did? Who knows who's next of the government hit list?"

Fin shook his head. He was beginning to get more than a little frustrated and annoyed with his partner. Where did he get these ideas? "Look, man, the government did _not_ shoot down JFK and no one we should be worried about is on some crazy government hit list. Shut up and do your paperwork."

John was about to reply when Don Cragen stepped from his office. "Who's catching?"

Olivia and Elliot were both at a crime scene someone had called in about an hour back. Munch and Fin were the only detectives in the squadroom, and were, therefore, the only ones available.

Cragen continued without waiting for one of them to reply. "We've got two victims in Bellevue, mother's forty, daughter's seventeen. They're both lightly sedated for now, but the doctor says they should be awake by the time or soon after you get there."

Eager for something to do besides paperwork, Fin slapped his file folder shut and stood. "Come on, old man." he grabbed his coat and keys, "I'm drivin'."

As John stood and reached for his coat, Cragen gripped his shoulder. "Be careful on this one, John. This will get personal for you. I wouldn't be sending you if Liv and Elliot were here. Don't hesitate to take a few days off, got it?"

Puzzled, the detective nodded before striding through the room and out the door. Why would _this_ case get personal? A repeat victim? A repeat _perp_? A family member? Ex-wife? Someone from his old homicide unit? Best not to think about it, he decided. He would find out soon enough.

Fin was holding the elevator for him. "If your skinny butt moved any slower, it'd be stopped." he said as his partner stepped past him into the box, still wrestling with an inside out coat sleeve.

When John failed to respond, Fin knew something was not right. "What, no smart answers? You losin' your touch in your old age?"

Munch gave him a warning glare, but did not answer verbally.

So Fin continued. "Come on, what's wrong? Oh, I know. Someone gave you undeniable proof that it was Lee Harvey Oswald and not a greedy LBJ?"

Another glare. "Not the time, Fin." he answered, his voice sounding more like a growl than a human voice.

Fin decided that it was probably best to shut up. After a few moments, the awkward silence in the elevator was broken by Munch.

"Look, sorry about that. I honestly don't know what's wrong. Cragen wouldn't tell me. Just that it would get personal."

Fin nodded in understanding as they made their way down the front steps to where his car was waiting. Almost a year ago, a case had gotten personal for him, too, and the last thing he had wanted to do was talk about it. So he changed the subject. "You honestly believe that LBJ orchestrated Kennedy's assassination?"

Munch stared at his partner over the rims of his glasses as Fin started the car. "He had motive, knowledge, and capacity. He was at least a suspect."

-----------------------------------

**Bellevue Hospital**

**October 29**

**---------------------------------**

"This guy really did a number on the girl. We put the cast on her arm while she was asleep."

"He broke her arm?" John asked as the doctor led him and Fin down the hall to the victims' room.

The doctor nodded and continued. "Yes, Zita, age seventeen, has a broken arm, a few fractured ribs, some cuts and bruises – nothing life-threatening. The mother, age forty, has only some cuts and abrasions, some bruises here and there. Physically, they'll be OK. Emotionally, who knows? Rapes can destroy peoples' lives, as you well know. At a guess, the girl woke up in time to fight back, but the mother was still doped up on chloroform when we got them. The girl probably passed out again after she sustained the major injuries. They were both pretty stressed out when they woke up, so we sedated them so they could get some sleep. That's when we called the numbers on the contact cards the other detectives sent us from the crime scene. After our doctors were sure rapes had occurred, we called you guys. Their rape kits are being processed now."

"Who was on these contact cards?" Fin asked.

"Bodyguards. An Etienne Dupont and a Xavier Cousteau. They said that the victims had told them to wait at their hotel room and that they would be all right. They'll be here as soon as they can. It could be a while, though. I hear traffic's pretty bad right now. When she got here, the mother also mentioned your name, Detective Munch. You might be able to help her until they get here."

Fin nodded when Munch did not answer making a mental note to mention her bringing up his partner's name later. "Where are they staying?"

"The Ritz, under the name O'Malley, one of them said. Just in case one of the doctors or the police needed to get a hold of them when and if they ever left the hospital after getting there. The bodyguards were pretty upset about what happened, as you can imagine. The time they agree to let them go somewhere alone, this happens. They're both blaming themselves."

_O'Malley_. John drew in a sharp breath, hoping Fin had not noticed. O'Malley had been the last name of one of his last partners in Baltimore, not to mention the first _real_ love of his life – the _only_ real love of his life, really. At least until she stabbed him in the back by running off and marrying that stuffy French diplomat, Plouvin. It had broken his heart and it was still mending seventeen years later. When he learned that she had deserted him, he had almost broken down. He had already purchased the engagement ring and was in the process of setting up a proposal when his captain introduced him to his new partner. John fury had lasted for days. I had had to; it was the only thing strong enough to cover up his pain. She had promised him that she would be true to him and she lied, tossing him and his dreams in the proverbial gutter. Not only that, but when he had called the number the his UN contact had given him numerous times, looking for answers, her husband and father told him that she had forgotten him. After all they had been through together, after all he had done for her, she had forgotten him, leading him on a search for another woman who could mean the same to him as she had. After several failed attempts at love, he had all but given up. Of course, the fact that he had not gotten rid of the seventeen-year-old engagement ring did not help anything, but this forced reunion? Maybe he _would _be taking a few days off.

The doctor finished his information-giving (the vast majority of which Munch had missed) as they arrived at the door. "Here we are, room 509. The daughter's on the far side, behind the curtain."

Munch and Fin stood in the doorway as the doctor left. Munch's face did not know how to react. It was her. Bowan O'Malley – well, Bowan _Plouvin_, now. _Oh, cut the crap, John._ his mind told him, _You still want her to be Bowan Munch._ He heard his mind, but decided to ignore it. This was going to get messy enough without him going slightly schizophrenic.

"I'll take the mother. You take the girl."

Fin saw the discomfort on his partner's face. Munch had history with the mother, he could see it on his face. This _was_ going to get very personal. "You sure?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I need to do this."

Still uncomfortable with leaving his partner alone with his past and emotions, Fin relented and stepped behind the curtain separating the room.

When Fin disappeared, John sighed and lowered himself slowly into the chair beside the sleeping woman. He did not want to care anymore, but he did. It pained him more than he allowed himself to admit to see her like this – beaten, raped, and sedated in a hospital bed. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Bowan, Bowan, Bowan. What are we going to do with each other?"

xXx

When Fin entered the curtained enclosure, the girl was already sitting up in her bed, staring out the window. Thinking that she had not heard him come in, he jumped in surprise when she acknowledged him.

"Bonjour." she said, her eyes never leaving the bustling city below her.

_Shoot._ Fin thought as he sat down in the chair beside the bed. The doctor had warned them that these two were from France. _I knew those bodyguards' names didn't sound American._

Fin's parents had made him take French I in highschool but he had forgotten most of it. He had to think hard to remember what he still knew, and most of it was more than very rusty.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, wincing at his bad accent. His mother would have killed him if she had heard.

Zita could not help but smile. At least he had tried to get it right. "Yes, detective, I speak fluent English, though, I wouldn't suggest you try to go to any French-speaking countries any time soon." she answered in a thick Irish accent, just like her mother's.

"Advice taken. How did you know I was a detective?" he asked, smiling at over at the girl. She was polite, but not afraid to speak her mind. He liked her already.

"Who else would be in here? The press don't know I'm here, and the doctors won't let anyone besides family, bodyguards, or the police in here without our or Pierre's permission, so they wouldn't have gotten in here anyway. I've never seen you before and you don't look like a doctor. Besides, detectives tend to be able to spot other detectives without asking as to their occupation," she answered, turning to face him, "or seeing their badge. Other than that it was a random guess."

Fin nodded again. It was not hard for him to believe that she was a detective from somewhere – so observant and on top of what was going on around her. But she was so young, too. "You're a detective? At seventeen?"

"French Secret Service and undercover common Paris Police Detective Zita Plouvin. Done a little work for Interpol – stings and such. Teenagers are the perfect undercover agents – who would suspect them of being cops? Most would think they're the miscreants, rather than the ones that catch them. The man who will introduce himself as my father, Pierre, doesn't know this and _isn't _to know about this, all right? My mother knows, and that's enough. You _can't _tell him. You have no idea the repercussions."

_Who is this girl? A forty-five-year-old trapped in an adolescent's body? _Fin thought. "Secret's safe. You say you're French . . . Zita, is it?"

She nodded. "By legal citizenship only. I was born in the black Harlem, en route to some fancy downtown Manhattan hospital. I'm American by birth. I refuse to believe that the Frenchman known to be my father really is, so perhaps my real father is here in America. For now, I'm an American in Paris in America."

"Then why don't you speak English with a French accent?"

"I can speak English in almost any accent, I've spent so much time at the UN, but my mother's the daughter of an Irish diplomat. She hasn't lived in Dublin since she was fifteen, but she never lost the accent. I learned the language with it." she answered, fingering a piece of thread that had slightly unraveled from the sling holding her arm. "But you didn't come here to talk about my citizenship or my accent, detective."

"Fin. Call me Fin."

"All right . . . _Fin_. Let's get the party started."

The older detective managed to hold back a laugh but could not hide the smile. She was pretty cavalier for a rape victim. But, he reasoned, she might see victims everyday. She would know, if she had been a detective any longer than a week, that panicking or becoming hysterical would only make the situation worse.

He sighed. "Did you get a look at the man that attacked you and your mother, Zita?"

She nodded.

"Could you describe him to a sketch artist or pick him out of a perp catalogue?"

Zita looked down at her hands. Pierre's bodyguard would not be in any perp catalogue and was probably on his way back to the chateau in the New York highlands, where Pierre was doubtlessly waiting for him. She did not know how to get there, nor did she know the address, but the chateau was not in any records, so it was not like it actually had one. No one would be seeing him in the city any time soon, and neither Pierre, nor his bodyguard, nor any of Pierre's other cronies would be in the system. It had been one of Pierre's first order of business when he got into the French parliament to effectively erase all of the records against his friends. It would be a hard case to get rolling. Or it would be, if Zita did not have the information needed to get started. Perhaps her revenge against Pierre and the other men who hurt her and her mother would be complete sooner than she had planned.

"I could," she answered, looking up at him, "but how 'bout I just give you his real name?"

* * *

Translation: Can you speak English?

Pronunciation: parlay vooz onglayz?


	3. Chapter 2

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Bowan's eyes opened slowly. Through her drug-induced sleep, she had heard someone say her name. The voice was familiar, but not so much that she recognized it with any surety. She could feel the presence of someone else in the room watching her. The one who had called her name?

The ex-detective turned her eyes from the ceiling to the bedside, where she saw the completely recognizable face of John Munch. Her heart skipped a beat. He had grown so old! It was more than simple age. It was the stress of his job. She could read it in the lines on his face. Frown wrinkles deeply creased the spot between his eyebrows and the etches of wear and tear, both emotional and physical, were all too evident. While still handsome in her opinion, he was far from the happy, carefree, young(ish) man with the constant smile waiting behind those deep brown eyes – the same ones that still made her weak in the knees, even though she was not standing. What was she going to say? Was there _anything _to say?

John saw her troubled expression and broke the ice. "Bonjour, Madame Plouvin."

Bowan took a deep breath. The 'Madame Plouvin' thing hurt more than the migraine-level headache pounding through her brain. "John, I –"

Munch held up his hand, silencing her. He really did not want to hear it right now. "Save it. I can't take this as more than just another case, and I intend on keeping it that way."

He paused, waiting for her to say something. But she said nothing.

"What? No answer?"

"If you won't let me explain what happened, what's the point? Look, I'm not asking for forgiveness and I don't expect you to forgive it after what I did. I know what happened hurt you and it has been seventeen years of heartbreak for me, too, but you not being willing to let me finish a sentence isn't helping me much, either. You have no idea what my daughter and I have been through before coming back here and now this happens just when I thought we were safe." she said quietly, trying to hide the emotions that were threatening to come streaming from her eyes. _She really has been through the emotional ringer more than once. No! Stop thinking like that! You'll only make it worse! I've missed that leprechaun accent, though._ Munch found himself thinking as Bowan continued. "The last thing I need right now is someone bringing up my past. I could've dealt with it before this afternoon, but not now."

John tried to ignore the tears welling up in Bowan's eyes. He failed. His heart was still breaking for her.

"I know I hurt you, and –"

"Ya think?" he asked, still trying to ignore what his mind was screaming at him.

Bowan glared up at the ceiling in exasperation. _Calm yourself down, Bowan. Now is not the time for your bloody Irish temper – not if you want back into his life._ she told herself. "You called me for answers," she answered, sighing, "the _true_ answers. Do you still want them or shall I stop?"

John shut his mouth and nodded, not sure if he really wanted to hear her story if it really was as bad as her eyes revealed. He mentally slapped himself. That tone in her voice made him feel, and react, like a naughty child. Nothing new there, he guessed, she had always been able to keep him in line.

"I know I hurt you and there's no excuse for that. I made a promise to you and I broke it, and there's no excuse for that, either, and I'm eternally sorry for what happened. There is, however, an explanation – a long complicated explanation, but an explanation nonetheless.

"As the daughter of an old-school diplomat, I always knew that there would be the risk of an arranged marriage, but living in Baltimore and working with you helped take that off my mind. Two months after we started dating publicly, my father called me from his hotel room in Baltimore, asking if I could pull myself away from work for a while to meet someone. I thought it would be just some old friend of his whom I'd never met, but when I got there, my father introduced him as my fiancé. He told me that there was no point in arguing, that all there was left to do was make it legal, with a signature from me, and public, by agreeing to an interview with some French TV news station after the wedding. I told him that Pierre was too late, that I already had a boyfriend and that I was just waiting for him to pop the question, but my father wouldn't hear it. He said that I didn't have options, that refusal was not mine to consider. I started to leave, but Pierre grabbed my arm. 'I'd listen to your father if I were you, Bowan.' he said, 'I'm a very powerful person with friends in high and _hidden_ places.' I told him that I didn't care, that I already had a man and that he'd have to get over himself. I tried to leave again, but he tightened his grip and motioned for some of his bodyguards to block the door. There was no way I was getting out of there, regardless of my sidearm. Four men with big guns and two men with no interest in helping me versus one not-so-big woman with a not-so-big gun, you know? That's when the threats started coming. He said he knew people who could find this other man, _you_, and I didn't have to think hard to know what he was implying. That's when I consented. I didn't want to make any trouble for you and I didn't want fellow officers having to investigate your murder.

"My father called the precinct and told them the basics, like that I wouldn't be back because I was getting married and that he would send someone to return my gun and badge and clean out my desk and such. I didn't speak for days – too angry. I thought all that had been the worst part, besides leaving you. But that was hardly the half of it.

"When we got to the mansion in Paris, Pierre's demeanor changed. He had been soft-spoken and gentle – I hated for him for what he was forcing me to do, but he didn't seem that bad otherwise – but when we got there, he 'lay down the law for his fiery Irish girl' as he called it. That was when the rapes started, at least until he found out that I was pregnant. I didn't tell him that the baby might not be his and he wanted a son, so he didn't do anything that might risk harming the baby. I wish I'd known the real reason he wasn't angry that Zita was a girl."

Bowan was not even trying to keep from crying now and even John was trying to hold back the tears. She had given up her freedom, her happiness, and her child's freedom and happiness for him. How could he have ever been that angry at her? She had suffered – her child, who had never seen or met him, had suffered – just to keep him from trouble. He passed Bowan a tissue and she continued.

"After the doctor said it was safe to . . . you know . . . have sex again, the rapes renewed. Every night, almost, it was at least him almost all night. Sometimes other men visiting Pierre or men Pierre had invited for a poker night or something that had gotten too drunk to go home were 'invited' in. At first, I just tried to imagine it was you, but after a while, I gave up. You were so different from them and I couldn't associate you with them. As the years went by, I was able to basically ignore the pain and just get through it, but then he started moving in on Zita."

"Your daughter?"

She nodded. "When he started moving in on her, I tried to fight him – something I hadn't really done before, because it would only make things worse, but she was only _ten_! What choice did I have? She couldn't fight him off. I broke his nose and he had Bruno, his bodyguard, rough me up a bit for it. Of course he did more than that, but it wasn't like I wasn't already used to it. After that night, he locked me in a closet while he . . . you know . . . raped her. Several years went by like this until Zita began picking up on self-defense maneuvers from her bodyguard, Etienne. She waited until just before Pierre took me one night about three years ago to attack him. She broke his nose, too, before Bruno dragged her off of Pierre." Bowan said, chuckling a little through her tears.

"Like mother like daughter."

She nodded. "I felt so guilty, knowing that she got off worse for trying to help me. After that we were both locked in closets – she to wait her turn, me to keep from interfering with whatever Pierre did to her. One year later, when she was fifteen, she joined the French Secret Service as a detective, kind of like your FBI agents here in America. Sometimes Interpol contracted her for stings. She was perfect for the part, as long as she was in cognito. Most French people know Zita vaguely by her looks, having seen the Plouvin family so many times on the news after the beginning of Pierre's latest rise up the political ladder. She was good at it and liked the job and there were plenty of older-brother and father figures to make sure nothing happened to their 'petite Zita.' Besides, it got her away from Pierre. The headmaster of her school was one of the few outside the mansion staff and the FSS or Interpol who knew Zita's occupation and covered for her on the numerous occasions where Pierre called to find out where she was. As far as Pierre was concerned, she was on mandatory school trips. But I'll let her tell you about that."

"What brought you to New York?"

"Well, first we went to Baltimore, but the new cap just said that you had transferred to the Manhattan SVU unit several years back, so we left north."

"But what pushed you to run? Just too much too long?" he asked gently, reaching her another tissue.

"Pierre wouldn't try it on me, I was getting too old. But Zita, he thought, could physically handle his new hobby – erotic asphyxiation. That's when enough became enough. After I saw her the morning after when Etienne brought me into her room to show me what that first night did to her, I took Zita and our bodyguards to America. Xavier is an American citizen by birth, grew up in California, and Etienne grew up in New Zealand, so there wasn't a whole lot for them to get used to. I couldn't let her go through that stuff and they'd get in trouble for letting us run away. He'd kill us all."

"So you came to find me?"

"Before I left, you were the closest thing I had to family here. _Real _family – the kind that actually gives a crap about you. I decided that no matter your reaction, you were my best shot. I didn't know what else to do."

John had a decision to make. He could not _not_ help her – take her and her daughter in – especially not after all they had been through. But it would be hard, seeing the woman who broke his heart every day until she got on her feet. He was not ready to trust his heart to her completely yet. His heart and mind would not let him.

"Look, I don't really like asking for handouts and I can definitely understand if you can't help us or if you don't want to – "

"No," John said, his head snapping up from its downward-staring position. He had made his decision. "my apartment has two bedrooms. I can sleep on the couch."

"John –"

"Look," It was time for the truth to come out. He could not keep it bottled up any longer. She had told him the truth, now it was his turn. "since you left, I've been a wreck. It hasn't been obvious, but it's been. I _was_ going to propose. Heck, I still have the ring." he said, then hesitated.

"But?"

"I'm just not ready to trust you again. I want to, but not yet. I still love you and no matter how stubborn my heart and mind are being right now, I know I always will. But I can't rush into this sort of thing. Not anymore."

"And I don't want you to rush into anything you don't want to. I still want what we had and I want us to have a chance at that again. Start as friends?"

Munch smiled down at his hands. "John Munch. And you are?" he asked, holding out a hand for her to shake.

"Bowan O'Malley. Enchanté, monsieur." she replied, laughing for the first time since she had arrived in New York.

"I hate to bring this up, but aren't you a Plouvin, now?"

"Not for long. Our butler informed me this morning that Pierre had signed the divorce papers I put on his desk before I left. All we have to do is set a court date to decide custody."

"For Zita? Do you have to go back to Europe for that?"

"It depends on Pierre. I get the feeling that he's arrived in America by now. Zita and Pierre are American citizens by birth, though quite by accident, and I have duel citizenship, as does all the Plouvin household. The case could be heard in either an American court or a European court. Who knows?"

"I take it a pre-nup was signed?" John asked her, giving her the over-the-rims look she had been dying to see. He had had enough experience with divorce proceedings.

She nodded, smiling. "Yes, don't worry. I was a good negotiator then and I'm a good negotiator now."

John could not help but smile. "You have _no idea_ how much I've missed you!" he said, taking her hands and giving them a gentle squeeze.

She squeezed back, her heart almost bursting with relief. "Likewise."

Their hands lingered for a few moments before a commotion outside the door interrupted them. Two large men burst into the room, the younger of the two calling out in a New Zealand accent, "Zita!"

xXx

Fin nearly had a stroke as a large man came barging through the curtain. Literally. Etienne had been unable to find the end of the curtain and proceeded to cut through the fabric with his knife. The detective leapt to his feet as the man burst through the barrier and pointed a gun at him. "Who are you?"

Fin was just a little too off-guard for speech. Zita rolled her eyes at her bodyguard. "This is a detective from the NYPD. Put your gun away."

Etienne promptly did as he was told as Zita turned back to Fin. "Fin, I'd like you to meet my bodyguard, Etienne Dupont. Etienne, this is Detective Tutuola. He and his partner are handling our case."

Etienne held out a very large hand for Fin to shake. Fin hesitated for a moment. This man was huge in comparison – six-four, six-five, at a guess – and Fin was not short himself. But to a man of Etienne's stature, five-foot-eleven _was_ short. In fairness, however, he hid his disconcertion well as he stood and shook the proffered hand.

"Call me Fin."

"Tienne. And sorry for startling you like that. You can understand why I'd be a little jittery. I can't believe this happened."

_A _little _jittery? _Fin thought, re-taking his seat, _If this is a 'little jittery,' I'd hate to see this guy mad._

Etienne turned his attention back to his charge. "Zita, you can't imagine how sorry I am for this. I should have never let you two talk us into letting you go out there alone. Are you all right? Well, aside from the obvious."

Zita hid a smile. When her bodyguard was not defending her from psycho-stalkers, rude suitors, or other men with guns, he was like a big teddy bear, and a little more than too concerned with her well-being. She had been in worse shape than this before on more than one occasion. He was definitely big brother material. "Yes, Tienne, I'm fine, aside from the obvious. At least until they try to feed me. I'm beginning to hate hospital food as much as airline in-flight food."

While Fin tried to choke down a laugh, Etienne dialed a number into his mobile phone. "I memorized the take-out numbers while Xav and I were waiting for you two to get back to the hotel. How's Chinese? I can send Xav to go get it."

Zita laughed a little half-heartedly. The hotel room had over three hundred channels, there was a PS2 in there, and he was sitting down, memorizing numbers out of the phone book. "Yeah, it's fine. You need a woman, Etienne. Or a hobby. I can't believe you memorized the take-out numbers."

Fin had gathered what information he could for that night and the victims seemed to be in good hands. He stood again and pulled out his card. "I need to get my partner and go. It's late and we have paperwork to do. If you think of anything else, give me call, all right?"

"Got it." Zita said, taking the card. "Thank you, Fin."

"No problem. It's my job." he answered, nodding in farewell to the girl and her keeper. It felt strange, hearing someone thank him. Normally, they just accepted or even ridiculed his work as a detective, but this girl had seen past her own problems enough to show gratitude. Maybe it was a fellow-detective thing. She understood what his job was like. Nevertheless, he could not shake the fact that she had thanked him. Someone of her social standing was the last person he had ever expected to thank him for anything. He would not admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but it felt kinda good.

Meanwhile

When the two large men burst into room 509, John let go of Bowan's hands and jumped to his feet, sending shoots of pain running through his knees. He certainly was not as young as he once was.

One of the men ran past them to the curtained section, but the other stood at the foot of the bed and pointed a rather large, dangerous-looking gun in John's direction. The man looked to be in, maybe, his very late thirties, closer to early- to mid-forties, with darkish skin and slightly-greying hair. He had relatively few lines on his face, which suggested early-forties, but age had very little to do with the muscles John could imagine (correctly) lurking underneath the sport coat he was wearing. Where was Fin when you needed him?

"Who are you?" the bodyguard demanded in an almost impenetrably thick French accent, then turned what attention that was not watching John and waiting for an answer, to Bowan, who was sitting in the bed trying not to laugh at John's reaction. "Are you all right, Madame Plouvin? What has he done to you? When I get my hands on him, I'll kill the monster myself!"

"I'm all right, Xavier, under the circumstances. I'll explain what happened later, and, no, you won't kill him unless you want to get prosecuted for murder. This is John Munch, a detective from the NYPD. Put your gun away."

John was still deciding whether he needed to work his heart back into his chest cavity or get a defibrillator to start it back up again. He just might take a day off after this.

Xavier warily put his gun back in its holster and offered his hand for John to shake. "Xavier Cousteau, Madame Plouvin's bodyguard. I apologize for startling you, detective. It's my fault she's in this mess, so you can see how I would be – how you say? – protective."

John nodded as he shook the huge sinewy hand. "John Munch, bony old guy. Also concerned."

Xavier chuckled a little at that. "Ah, trés amusant."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Bowan translated for John. "He says you're funny. Sorry, his English is a little broken sometimes."

John nodded in understanding as he took his seat again. His heart was working better now.

After a few moments of more silence, Xavier went to stand at his new post just inside the doorway, leaving John and Bowan alone.

"Well." John said, standing again and reaching into his pocket for his card, on the back of which he scribbled his home and cell phone numbers. "If you need anything before you're discharged, or if you think of anything else, call me. It's late and me and my partner have paperwork and a long day tomorrow."

Bowan nodded and John began to make his way to the door Fin was just exiting, when she called him back.

"John? Can you come back over here? I have a question."

John, grateful for an excuse to come back, returned to the bedside.

"You offered to let us stay with you and I'm eternally grateful, but we have a _dog_. Can you have pets in your apartment?"

John blanched slightly. Dogs had never been his strong suit. "How big is it?" he asked, envisioning a mammoth of a canine the size and approximate weight of a Chevy Suburban, only with considerably more drool.

"About a pound and a half."

"_A pound and a half?_" he echoed, the image of the Suburban replaced by that of the end of a Q-tip. "What kind of _dog_ weighs a pound and a half?"

"He's a miniature Yorkie."

John gave her the over-the-rims look. "You never struck me as one to have a dog the size of a walnut as a pet."

"He was cute!"

"The limit is fifteen pounds. I guess Fifi can stay as long as he's housetrained, quiet, and you don't make the poor thing wear a bow in his hair."

Bowan held back a laugh. "For your edification, his name is Sir Reginald III, Reggie for short. And yes, he's very housetrained, and, no, we don't make him wear a bow, and, yes, he's relatively quiet because his vocal cords aren't big enough for much noise."

"We'll see how he takes to me when we get there. I tend to repel dogs."

She smiled softly up at him. "Thank you, John, for everything." she said, her voice growing serious as she squeezed the hand he had rested on the bedrail. "You don't know how much this means to us."

"It's a pleasure, as long as I get to meet your Zita next time we see each other." he said, pulling her hand up to his face and kissing her fingers.

"I knew there was the prince charming in there somewhere." she said, grinning.

John returned the smile. "Who knows? Perhaps we'll see more of him. I'll come by tomorrow, if I can. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

Bowan watched him leave, smiling to herself. "I'll hold you to tomorrow." she whispered.

xXx

Fin and John made their way through the hospital halls in relative silence until Fin spoke up.

"So how did you know the mother?" he asked quietly, knowing this could be a touchy subject.

John sighed. Fin would find out sooner or later; it was probably best if he heard it from him sooner. "You thirsty? I think I'll need a drink for this one."

xXx

Etienne finished ordering the food and, after arguing for a few minutes as to who should go and finally flipping a coin to decide, sent Xavier to go pick it up a few blocks away. After he left, Zita grabbed the pole from beside her bed and managed, with Etienne's help, to get the curtain pushed aside enough for a conversation with her mother.

"The sedatives still wearin' off or are you particularly pleased about something?" she asked, noticing the small smile lingering on Bowan's face.

Bowan turned her head to look at her daughter. "You know that man, John, I was talking about?"

Zita nodded.

"Well, he caught our case."

"You meet up with your old boyfriend and you don't introduce him to your own daughter? That hits me right here, Mom, right _here_." the teenager answered, "stabbing" herself in the chest with her good arm.

"Sorry, he and his partner –"

"Had paperwork." Zita finished.

Bowan nodded. "He said he'd come by tomorrow if he could. You can meet him then. Besides, you'll get to know him pretty well if he can't make it. We'll be living with him until we can find another place here."

"Moving in with the old boyfriend _already_?" Zita asked in a mock-reprimanding tone. "Mom, the divorce isn't final for a while."

"When did that make any difference to Pierre?"

"Sorry, bad topic. So. What's this John guy like?"

Bowan leaned back into her pillows, sighing as her smile broadened. "Ah, where do you start . . . ?"

* * *

A/N: OK, I know there's some questions to be answered, like why Zita and Bowan are so nonchalant about their attacks and stuff like that. They will be answered in the next chapter. Hopefully I can get that up before the Second Coming . . . 


	4. Chapter 3

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

A/N: Oh, my word! Sorry it took soo long to update! This is a shorter chapter, but Chapter 4, which I have finished but haven't typed out yet, will be much longer. I don't know the name of the 1-6's usual bar, so I came up with another name, unless this is it, then I got it right and didn't realize it.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

McGafferty's Pub

10:23 P.M.

John stared at his reflection in his glass, trying to come up with a way to begin his story. Fin sat across from him, patiently waiting for him to start, meanwhile tracing designs into the condensation on his glass. He could remember how hard it had been to talk about the case he had dealt with the year before, when Munch had brought him here after he had found Nina Tremain. He had never met Nina, or her mother, Violet, before. He could only imagine what his partner had been through with this one. Judging by the look on the Jewish man's face, Zita's mother – Bowan, she had said? – and John shared a long and complicated history. This could take a while.

Munch sighed deeply. Beginnings were usually a good place to start. "I met Bowan almost twenty years ago, back when I was in Baltimore. We were partners in the homicide unit there. We were like Liv and Elliott – almost too close most of the time, but too good of a team for our captain to break us up. After about a year, we gave in and started dating – secretly, of course. It started out slow; I was still getting over my fiancé walking out on me for some twenty-something she met at a club and Bowan had never been in a serious relationship before, especially with someone seventeen years older than her, so it wasn't like slow was bad. We took it _very_ slow. But about six-maybe-seven months after we started dating, our captain sent us on an undercover operation across town. A string of murdered couples in one apartment building. The sting lasted about a week and on the night the cops finally catch they guy while we were supposed to be out somewhere doing something – you know how they schedule these things. Our captain told us just to spend the night there, since the city was paying for it until the next morning whether we stayed there or not, and we might as well enjoy the penthouse while we could."

"Wait, they booked you a _penthouse_?"

"Like a good dream. Jacuzzi and everything." John said, smiling as he remembered, "When we were allowed back into the apartment, Bowan went to take a shower and I went to stand at the balcony and look at the city, like I usually do, watch the sun set, all that stuff. I'd had a lot on my mind lately and didn't realize how cold it was until I felt someone wrap a blanket around me around me. Apparently, I'd lost track of time, because Bowan was out of the shower and I'd missed the sunset. She stood there beside me, watching the city with me and talking until I noticed her shivering and opened the blanket to let her in. She'd always been warm-blooded, but Baltimore can be a very cold place to a person when it's sundown in October and they're wearing only a bathrobe. We stood there talking like that for – oh, at least an hour. Well, one thing led to another –"

"Whoa, man, I don't need or _want_ details!" Fin said vehemently, holding up his hands as if to defend himself from unwanted mental images.

"Look, if you think I'd unload _those_ details on you, think again – I had no intention!" he replied, giving his partner a mixed look of amusement and annoyance over the rims of his glasses. "Let's suffice to say that after I dropped her off at her apartment the next day, I started searching for engagement rings and better furniture. A week later, her stuff was in my apartment. That was when we had to let the captain know. Fortunately, he was fine with the situation as long as we didn't bring it to work with us. We were happy and everything was fine, but one day around mid-December, she disappeared. I didn't see her the last hour I spent at work. She wasn't at the apartment. I called her pager, but she never called back. I didn't know where she was. I didn't worry too much, though; her stuff was still at the apartment and I had checked all the hospitals, so I expected her to come back. But she didn't. I waited all night – no Bowan. The next morning, I went to work, hoping that, perhaps she had returned to the precinct after her errand and had stayed the night, but when I got there, the captain introduced me to my new partner. When I asked about Bowan, he just told me that she was safe and _engaged_. A week before, I'd found the engagement ring I wanted, but it was still in my pocket. I didn't know what to do. Her father's an Irish diplomat, so I thought she might have left with him. I called her father, Ian O'Malley's, house, but a butler or personal assistant or whatever told me that she wasn't there and gave me another number to call to reach her. So I called it and this person in Paris picks up and, after taking my name and my reason for calling, handed the phone off to this guy, Pierre, who picks up and tells me that Bowan has forgotten all about me and fallen in love with him, a French diplomat who could grant her her every wish."

"Which of course he didn't."

"I see Zita filled you in. Well, after he hung up on me, I nearly broke down. Didn't work for three days. All this time I've been angry, but I can hardly find justice in it now, after all she went through. Pierre told her that he would cause trouble for me if she didn't leave with him. She went and gave herself up – gave her daughter up – for me, a man who repays her by being furious at her."

"Look, it wasn't your fault. You were only running on the information you had."

John nodded in unconvinced agreement.

"So now you're back together?"

"Almost. We're trying. We both need time to heal."

Fin decided to change the subject. "Funny," he said, ordering another drink, "but Zita didn't act much like a victim. It was like she was reporting a rape as a witness. She didn't cry, didn't seem too shaken up or anything. I've never seen a vic act like that before."

John smiled sadly into his beer. "She gets that from her mother. She's probably been through it so many times, it doesn't phase her – or Bowan – as much as first-time victims. They're used to being strong for each other. No tears will be shed until they're both alone."

Fin glanced at his watch. Time had flown – it was almost 11:30. "We gotta get back. There's still paperwork and you're starting to sound too much like Huang to be listened to here."

* * *

Bowan had finished her commentary on John soon after Xavier returned with the Chinese. At present, the two patients were busy hiding the delicious contraband from the nurse who had brought their hospital food and was now checking there monitors.

"Those are an awful lot of take-out boxes for two men." the nurse commented.

Zita shrugged. "They're big guys. They eat a lot."

The nurse was still questioning but did not press the subject. "Hmmm, I see." she said, glancing over at Etienne, who was busy trying to chew with three duck wantons crammed into his mouth. While he knew he could not say anything, he did try to smile (with his mouth closed, of course) disarmingly at the nurse. It had little effect.

"Just make sure _you_ don't eat any of it. The food we have is made especially for the patients. Helps 'em keep strengthen up." the nurse said, then left with a backward glance at the bodyguards, both of whom were trying to appear very concerned with the take-out.

"Ugh! Strengthen up, my eye!" Zita said, reaching for the iced tea she had stuffed behind one of the bed legs. "Personally, I think they're trying to keep the patients down so they can run up their bill. Pass the eggrolls?"

"Yes," Bowan said, retrieving her lo mein from under Xavier's watchful eye. "You and John are going to make a _great_ team."

"What? He doesn't like hospital food, either?"

"No, well, he probably doesn't, but, his greatest hobby is coming up with conspiracy theories. He'd love that one, so don't tell him. He'd drive his partner crazy."

"Get's a little worried when H. G. Wells is mentioned, does he?"

"And aliens in general, and JFK, and Elvis, and the CIA, FBI, MI6, and the ex-Soviets."

"How does he get out of bed in the morning?"

"He probably has a theory for that, too."

* * *

"You finished it, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, I'll be at the chateau in half an hour."

"Have the police caught the scent yet?"

"Not that I know of. For all I know, the women are still unconscious."

"Good. Get here quickly and make sure you aren't followed."

The tall, thin Frenchman snapped his disposable cell phone shut. All was going according to plan. Divorce him, would she? Disgrace him? Not if he had anything to do with it.


	5. Chapter 4

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. My computer decided that it didn't want to read the floppy this was on, so I had to re-type the whole thing. FYI: I don't know of the workings of Interpol or the French police, so some of this information about those institutions are complete conjecture.

**Chapter 4

* * *

**

Captain Cragen's Office

11:00 A.M

October 30, 2003

* * *

"All right, let me get this straight, John. The mother is an ex-partner of yours, an ex-partner you almost _married_, the daughter is a detective for the French common police and the French Secret Service, which could possibly bring European police into this mess, and you want me to keep you on this case?"

"Yes." John said, nodding once.

Cragen rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day – and it was not even noon. "And to top it all off, you offered to let them stay with you until they get on their feet in the States?"

Single nod again.

Cragen sighed. He hated to take John off this case, especially since he and Fin had already managed to establish a rapport with the Plouvins. Not only that, but John also seemed to have the most drive to catch this guy. However, John's history with Mrs. Plouvin could be a problem.

"If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, you're out. Understood?"

John nodded gratefully and emerged from the captain's office, a smug smile on his face. He had managed to get his way yet again.

"I gather from the expression on your face that His Boniness is still on the case?" Fin asked, glancing up from his seat behind the Mount Everest of paperwork he had abandoned for McGafferty's the night before. Was it his imagination, or had it gotten higher? Significantly?

"Yes, he and his faithful court jester remain on the job, unless I do something stupid."

"Don't you mean _until_ you do something stupid?"

John glared at him over the stack of folders. "Ha ha. You should have your own show."

"I don't need a show to tell me I'm funny." Fin answered. He held up a file. "_You_ were the primary on this one. If you don't quit pushing _your_ paperwork onto _my_ desk, I'm gonna –"

A phone rang, interrupting Fin mid-rant. "It was worth a shot." John mumbled, taking the file from Fin as his partner answered the phone.

"Tutuola . . . yes . . . yeah, I am."

There was a few moments' pause while the person on the other end spoke.

"Around four? . . . All right, I'll tell 'im . . . A'ight . . . Thanks . . . Bye."

Fin returned the phone to it's cradle. "That was the hospital. Bowan and Zita are being discharged around four this afternoon. Nurse says their bodyguards should bring them by the precinct after they get their stuff from their hotel room."

"Then I guess it's a good thing I stayed up 'til three this morning cleaning." John answered, returning his attention to the form in front of him.

"Are you really gonna sleep on your couch until they find a place?"

"Well, Bowan and I are hardly as close as we were seventeen years ago, so, yeah, unless I want to sleep on the floor. Is my couch that uncomfortable?"

Fin shrugged. A year or so back, Munch had insisted on him staying with him after Fin had been discharged from the hospital. It had been a difficult case, made only slightly more so by the fact that the perps had set up an ambush and sent Fin to the hospital with a bullet in his shoulder. The _invalid_ – as Munch had too gleefully referred to him as – had not woken up with any extra aches or pains after sleeping on the couch. Of course, the Vicadin the hospital had sent home with him might have had something to do with that.

"Did Zita tell you they have a dog, too?"

"You're letting a _dog_ live in _your_ apartment?" Fin asked incredulously, signing the bottom of a form. "Now I'm starting to believe all those alien-abduction-replacement theories of yours."

"Well, I'm glad to have shown you the light. If this whole dog-thing doesn't work out, you can bet he'll be going straight back to the Ritz with the bodyguards."

"What kind of dog is it?" Olivia asked frm her desk a few yards away.

John could not help but smile at the thought. Fin would never let him live this down. "It's a miniature yorkie. His name is Sir Reginald III. They call him Reggie."

Fin did not even try to hold back a laugh. "Are you _kidding_? Not only is it a dog, but it's a _lap_dog? I wonder if I can talk Zita into installing a few video cameras or something. 'D love to see your reaction to _that_ in the morning!"

John glared at him from above the rims of his glasses. "I'm not meriting that comment with a response."

"You just responded." Elliot said, delivering the detectives' second round of morning caffeine.

John just snorted as his colleagues smiled behind their hands.

* * *

2:30 P.M.

* * *

"Crime scene evidence came back." Olivia said as she and Elliot returned to the squadroom. "Whoever this guy is, he's good. No witnesses, no evidence left behind at all besides the DNA found in the rape kits, DNA that isn't in our system. For all we know, Bruno isn't even his real name. We have no way of tracing him or his whereabouts. If he bought anything since he arrived in America, he paid cash. Trail's gone cold."

"Zita said that he'd probably head to some chateau-thing in the highlands. Unfortunately, there's no record of such a building or a Pierre Plouvin owning any land up there. She said she might be able to call in a few favors from a few friends in Interpol who might be able to get us that information. She says Bruno has a record, but he's served his time, at least for the crimes he's been collared for, so we might be able to get some help from the French police. Unfortunately, if he and Pierre ain't at the chateau, they're probably back in France." Fin said, flipping through his notebook.

"And neither Zita nor Bowan know the location of this mansion? What about the bodyguards?" Cragen asked.

Fin shook his head. "Zita said it didn't even have an address and Bruno was the one that drove there when they went. Again, she said she might be able to call in a favor."

"Well, head on over there and see if there's anything Zita or Bowan forgot they knew. We're gonna need all the help those two can provide."

"Bowan and Zita are being discharged around four this afternoon. Should we just wait until they get here?" John asked, removing his feet from the top of his desk.

Cragen thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. "They're probably under enough stress as it is. Wait 'til they get here. Besides, Casey'll have kittens if DD5s aren't filed by the time she gets here – in about forty-five minutes."

In seconds, the heads of all four detectives were bent down over their paperwork. No one knew the new ADA well enough to test her temper. You could never tell with lawyers.

* * *

Bellevue Hospital

Room 509

4:00 P.M.

* * *

Etienne and Xavier arrived at their charges' room with small duffflebags of clothes just as the nurse was leaving. She glared at them, sniffing the air. The nurse had caught the pair in their smuggling act that morning when the two men had tried to sneak into the room with four cups of coffee and half a dozen bagels. Despite their efforts to explain that the food was for themselves and that they would never dream of smuggling food into the patients, the nurse insisted that they eat the food in the hospital's cafeteria. So, after spending a few minutes in the crowded cafeteria, they wrapped the bagels in napkins and stowed them in their pockets with the carefully-placed remaining coffees and successfully smuggled them anyway. So far, the nurse had not found out.

This time, the bodyguards and the bags they were carrying were void of contraband – for the most part. Etienne fervently hoped that the nurse would not see the slightly-open dufflebag he was carrying wiggle or hear the faint whining noises it was emitting. After another dubious glance from the nurse, both men stepped quickly into the room. Bowan and Zita were sitting on Bowan's bed watching a movie in their hospital gowns.

"Ah, thank you! It's about time I got into some real clothes!" Zita said when Etienne passed her the bag containing her cloths, a mischievous grin on his face.

"What?" she asked, suddenly unsure of whether or not she really wanted to change so badly.

"Nothin'." Etienne replied. "Go change. The detectives are expecting us at the precinct and the traffic's getting bad."

Still doubting his honesty, she took the bag and headed into the room's bathroom. As the door shut, Xavier nudged his co-worker. "Voulez-vous lui donner une crise cardiaque?"

Before Etienne could answer, a scream was heard from the bathroom. Thankfully, the door was closed and the walls were thick enough for the sound not to have reached the hospital personnel.

"Etienne!" she cried, holding the yipping dog in her good arm. "You are _such_ a _boy_!!!"

The bodyguard could not reply for laughing so hard. He and Zita often engaged in pranks on each other, but she was generally ready for his. Her reaction was priceless.

"Ah," said Xavier, "my suspicions are confirmed! I'm glad you haven't been lying about your gender all these years, Etienne."

Etienne stopped laughing. "What was _that_ supposed to mean?"

Bowan rolled her eyes, muttering something about 'thirty going on twelve.' "Zita?" she called, "Hurry up in there. You aren't the only one that needs to change."

"I'm trying! _You_ try getting clothes on with a dog running around and one arm. Ow."

"Do you need help?"

"Um, yeah. Can you give Reggie to Etienne? He's having a conniption in here. I put him in the bathtub. He can run around in there."

"You mean Eti_anna_?" Xavier muttered. "Ow!"

"Eti_enne_, Xav, Eti_enne_! Here, you hold the dog." the younger bodyguard corrected as he passed Reggie, who whom Bowan had delivered, on to Xavier.

After a few minutes of confusion as to how to get the sling back on correctly, Zita emerged from the bathroom in jeans and a hoodie and a good deal more comfortable than when she went in. She took the dog back from Xavier, glaring over at her own, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with a huge, impish grin on his face.

"That _wasn't_ funny. At least not as funny as you thought it was."

Etienne burst out laughing and Xavier replied instead. "Apparently, your reaction was."

"I know. I heard your joke. Don't let up on him."

"Hey!"

"Shut up, Tienne." Xavier said, shoving him playfully on the shoulder.

In seconds, a small fight had ensued, with Zita reffing and Reggie trying vainly to make sense of the sudden chaos and wondering if he should have played it safe and stayed with Bowan in the bathroom.

This was the scene that greeted said woman when she exited the bathroom. "Boys!" she reprimanded, "How old are you?"

Muttered answers.

"Both of you! Go to your rooms!" Zita said jokingly, covering – or attempting to – her involvement.

The bodyguards, playing the parts of two fully-chastised five-year-olds, shuffled their feet on the floor. "Yes, moms."

Bowan laughed at their antics. "All right, children, are we ready to go?"

No one answered. The three "children" just grabbed what stuff they had and scrambled for the door. Bowan shook her head as she gave the room one last look-over. "I rest my case."

* * *

SVU Squadroom

5:00 P.M.

* * *

Munch was beginning to worry about the Plouvins when Bowan poked her head in the door then walked in, followed by Zita and the bodyguards.

John stood and walked over to meet them. He hugged Bowan. "How're you doin'?"

"I'm okay." she replied, nudging her daughter closer to Munch by kicking the backs of Zita's shoes. "And this is my daughter, Zita."

"I'd shake your hand, but a left-handed handshake could be a little awkward." Zita said apologetically.

"Well, I'll just have to settle for a hug, then, I guess." John said in a mock-annoyed tone, embracing her, careful of her injuries.

_Yes,_ Zita thought as he released her, _this is the choice for 'Dad.'_

A small yip/bark was heard from the large pocket on Zita's hoodie as John stepped back. Startled, John peered at the little brown and black head poking from the pocket. "Sir Reggie, I presume?"

Zita pulled the little dog from the pocket. "Be careful, he's mental – multiple personalities or severe mood swings, I haven't decided which."

"Maybe Huang can tell us." Fin said, joining the group.

"That is freaking _adorable_!" gasped Casey Novak, who had just returned from chambers behind the Plouvins. Hearing the compliment, the little dog struggled to get to his new admirer. "Can I?" Casey asked, and Zita passed him to her.

"This is Casey Novak, our new ADA." Munch told his guests. "Casey, this is Bowan and Zita Plouvin and their bodyguards, Etienne Dupont and Xavier Cousteau. The puff's Reggie. Bowan, this is my partner, Fin Tutuola, whom Zita and Etienne have already met. My other colleagues, Olivia Benson, her partner, Elliot Stabler, and our captain, Don Cragen are somewhere interrogating a suspect. You'll meet them later."

Introductions were made all around to those available. At the mention of the interrogation, Casey gasped again. "Oh, I have to be there for that! It was nice meeting you!" Casey said, unceremoniously passing Reggie to the nearest person with empty hands, namely Munch, and dashed off as fast as her heels would allow.

"I take it she's _really _new?" Zita asked Fin, who nodded.

"She got here a week or so ago. Come on, let's go sit down. You four comin'?"

Etienne and Xavier, satisfied that their charges were in safe hands, declined and went to wait in the car. Munch stole Olivia's and Elliot's empty chairs after passing Reggie on to Fin, whom the dog took an instant liking to. Bowan had been right. The dog _was _cute, but Munch knew he would never hear the end of it if he admitted so.

"So, uh, did you ever get ahold of your man in Interpol?" Fin asked Zita after they were all seated.

"Yes, Etienne smuggled me in my cell this morning with breakfast. He said that he'll see what he can do. It won't be an easy job, since all we have to track Pierre or Bruno are their credit records. When we find out what brick-and-mortar stores either of them visit in America, we'll be able to find out roughly where they're hiding or what direction they're heading in if they're on the run."

"So they're tracking their spending habits? How is that gonna lead us to them?" Munch asked.

"When we find out where they shop in the US offline on a routine basis, they can send men in to track them back to their hideout."

"Who's they?"

"Depends on who winds up involved. If my squad back home comes in as help, it'll probably be a mixture of you and them. My captain will know about all this eventually; I wouldn't be surprised if he sent at least a few people."

"If not come himself." Bowan added.

"Why wouldn't they just collar him when they found him?" Fin asked, "Why wait until they get home?"

"Well, because Pierre's political standing. We'd need an extraditionary warrant to arrest him. If they see Bruno, they could collar him on sight, but we'd never squeeze Pierre's location out of him. He'd go to prison for life before giving the man who erased his record so he could travel freely up. Of course, this is all providing that they're in the country. If they went back to France, it's beyond your jurisdiction and into mine and my squad's, not that Antione would let me actually work this case."

"And it's a good thing, too, young lady. If your captain didn't stop you, I would." Bowan said firmly.

Munch sighed. "There's nothing you remember about the chateau? No landmarks along the way? I have a feeling that Cragen would rather this be a NYPD operation only, rather than pull in French police forces. Nothing personal, Zita."

Bowan and Zita shook their heads in reply. "No, and no offence taken." Zita answered. "I can see his point. The French police wouldn't want American police in on their investigations, either. It's a territory thing."

"Well, if there's nothing else you can tell us," Fin said, pulling out two yellow legal pads, "we're gonna need to get official statements from both of you about last night."

The Plouvins took the notepads and pens the detectives gave them. "Does it matter if it's messy? I'm right handed." Zita asked, looking up at Fin.

"Here, I'll write it for you. Tell me what to write . . ."

* * *

Fin wished he had walked to work that morning when he saw Munch's ride home. Living in New York City, he had heard about the new Cadillac Escalade, but had never been inside one. They were patently ridiculous on the streets of Manhattan, but, he supposed, the Plouvin bodyguards wanted their charges as insulated from the public as possible, especially after the events of the night before. He looked down at his old Ford. It was not a bad car and it had served him well over the last ten years, but it was beginning to show its age.

He watched the black SUV pull away, wishing he was inside, and not just because the plush interior he had heard so much about. Fin had managed to become quickly attached to the Plouvin girl. He had blown his chance to be a good father to his son and felt that Zita might be his second chance to prove to himself that he could be a good parent, albeit a surrogate one, as she was already like a daughter to him. It scared him in a way, how quickly he had become so . . . like this. Not even a full day. Of course, he was not really surprised. Zita was a good daughter. Munch had told him more about what Bowan had told him about Zita the night before. She had risked a lot, protecting her mother like that. She did not break down, either. Most rape victims were almost crazy afterwards. Zita, and Bowan, really, had managed to remain calm about it, even cracking jokes from time to time. It almost made his job easy.

* * *

En Route to John Munch's Apartment

* * *

"So what unit do you work for, Zita?" Munch asked as Xavier navigated the massive vehicle through the New York traffic.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to keep Reggie from falling from her lap in his excitement to be in a moving car.

"Like, do you work in homicide, theft, special victims, vice, narcotics . . .?"

"The French police don't have units like that. There's detectives who are better with different crimes than others, but we work on everything."

"So what you saw on the evidence boards at my precinct were nothing new?" he asked, a large weight falling from his shoulders. He should have thought to move those boards before they came in.

"No, _I'm _usually the one who catches cases like those. You can only guess why. My partner hates it."

John's surprise at her nonchalance did not show on his face. Fin had been right. She seemed totally unfazed by what had happened to her – simply angry that it had happened to her mother, too, and happy that something was finally being done about it. At least she was making it easy for them. No matter how little he admitted it, his heart broke every time he saw a victim, especially a child, cry. Zita was hardly a _child_ anymore, not with her maturity level and police badge and sidearm he assumed were hidden somewhere on her person, but she was hardly an adult yet.

This case stung worse than the others, he realized. Perhaps it had something to do with what Bowan had said the night before, that thing about Zita possibly being his. He had thought about that a lot while he was cleaning. Fin talked about how kids could be, mentioning how John should be grateful for having not replicated and how it would be an Armageddon-causing tragedy if he had. Regardless of the perils his partner spoke of, John had always wanted children. The only problem had been that he had either found a woman who wanted anything but children or a woman who left him too soon. Perhaps Zita could prove Fin wrong – be his chance for fatherhood. _No_, John thought, _there's too many variables. Get your hopes up and they'll break your heart._

Of course, neither Zita nor John would have guessed that their thoughts were yet another thing they had in common.

She looked nothing like him, but Zita could not help but almost believe that he was her father. He seemed to have welcomed her into his life immediately. And he was so natural about it, like she had always been there as his daughter and had just been away at college or something. He had _hugged _her. That was something new for Zita. Sure her friends hugged her, her friends' families hugged her, her mother hugged her, even Etienne and Xavier hugged her when she was having a particularly bad day, but Pierre, her permanent father figure, had never hugged her or offered any affectionate contact. Normally, Zita did not appreciate much touching, mainly due to the physical contact she faced from Pierre, which made living in mainland Europe rather uncomfortable, considering the lack of personal space and the greeting customs the culture provided. But with John, it just felt right, albeit a little bony.

But she could not allow herself to think about that stuff. The divorce papers were signed, but Bowan did not have a job and did not have as much money as Pierre. There was still a possibility, if the ADA – Casey, John had called her? – could not put Pierre away, that he would get custody, no matter what he had been accused of.

_Nope_, she told herself, _just don't think about that stuff_.

But her mind would not let go of the memory of the way it felt when John hugged her and how much she wanted him as a father.

* * *

John Munch's Apartment

* * *

"Well, here we are." John said as Etienne and Xavier filed past him into the apartment with the Plouvin's bags, "Your rooms are down that little hallway, there."

John held the door as Bowan and Zita stepped in. The apartment was impressively clean for a bachelor, especially one as busy as he was. The detective kicked a can of dusting spray behind a bookcase. No use revealing his true house-keeping habits just yet.

John brought his guests back to their rooms and left them to settle in while he went to get his things organized in his living room.

Zita set Reggie down on the floor and he dashed about the room aimlessly, his nose to the ground, inspecting his new domain. It was a far cry from his plush accommodations in Paris, but he had faith that Zita would fix it. She always did.

The fixer in question was in the middle of unpacking her suitcase when her phone rang. Her mouth split into a grin. The British National Anthem. Only one person on her contact list had that caller ID.

"Talk to me Justin."

The voice that answered spoke in a clipped British accent and belonged to one Justin Mianovich, the son of Samuel Mianovich, the head of Interpol's undercover division. He was the department's teen techie genius and very close friend of Zita Plouvin.

"We got 'im, Zi. Well, we got his purchase location, at least."

"Fill me in."

"Gas station off of highway 90 near Rome, New York. Paid with a Visa."

"Getting lazy already, is he? Do we have a GPS location?"

"Of course we don't, moron! We are a completely useless and inefficient institution! You should know that by now! How long have you been with us?" Justin blurted.

"Two years and can you e-mail me that location? I'm sure the NYPD would find it useful."

Zita could almost see him rolling his eyes at his computer screens, which provided the vast majority of the light in his lab. "Already did. And I'll be sending all further locations as well, not that you'll show any appreciation or anything." he snorted irately, "I could probably find a way to track the card itself, whether it was used or not, if this bureaucracy would give me a decent budget." he grumbled.

Zita smiled. Justin played the part of the unappreciated, underpaid, underfunded, dateless genius better than any A-list actor ever could. "And I'd up your budget if I could, but I'm afraid I have little standing in Interpol's financial affairs. Your dad knows about this little operation, right?"

"Yeah, I told him. Don't worry, he won't talk to the press."

The Mianovich men were two of the few who knew of Bowan and Zita's situation and the events leading up to it. At first, Justin had been outraged, wanting to go and take Bruno and Pierre out on his own, but the most muscle-building exercise his body saw in a day was walking to his lab at Interpol and tapping at a computer keyboard, so Zita had to convince him to keep his peace and Samuel not to tell someone about what had been going on at the Plouvins. It would only cause trouble and revenge only grew in sweetness while one waited for it.

"So how're you holding up? Out of the hospital yet, are you?"

"Yeah. An old friend of my mom's is letting us live with him until we find a place."

"Do you like 'im?"

"Yeah, turns out, he's a detective in the Special Victims Unit in Manhattan, so it's a stroke of luck for us."

"But? There's something else about him you're holding back – I can hear it in your voice. Is he an ex-con hiding his identity like that one guy who almost became your partner a year ago? I can look him up for you!"

"No, no, nothing like that! Did I mention he was a cop? They don't have records."

"Then what?"

"He _hugged_ me, Just. And I wasn't uncomfortable about it. It was just natural. That _doesn't happen with me_. Not without a guy building at least four months' worth of trust first. I had only caught a glimpse of John once before and I hadn't actually met him until this afternoon when he hugged me."

"You didn't put your hand out? Normally you go for the handshake first. You're in America now, handshakes are commonplace there. You're in your greetings comfort zone."

"I told you, I broke my right arm. It's in a sling, Einstein. I said that shaking hands with my left hand could be a little awkward and he said he'd just have to do with a hug. Normally I'd hit a guy for that, but it's like I known him all my life. It's bizarre, but not in a bad way."

"An _old friend_ of your _mom's_? Does this mean –"

"They were partners when my mom was in homicide in Baltimore, and, yes, they dated, so, yes, it's possible, but don't talk about it. The last thing I need is for me to get my hopes up. I don't look anything like John, but I don't look anything like Pierre, either, so it's up in the air. I don't think John's ready for a paternity test right now, anyway. As of, like, several years ago, he's been a bachelor with no kids. He's in his sixties; I don't want him having a heart attack."

"Whoa! Your mom's only forty!"

"Don't start with me. Age has nothing to do with it.

Justin decided to change the subject. Girls could be so sensitive. "So how's New York? Big and loud?"

"Yeah, and the drivers are better here than in Paris."

"That shouldn't surprise you. You French drivers are nuts!" Justin said, "Hold on, my dad's here."

"Say hi for me."

Muffled conversation ensued on the Mianovich side for several seconds before Justin got back on the line. "My dad says that if we're not talking about the case anymore that I have to get back to work. Physics III homework."

"Like that's so hard for you. You have an IQ of, like, two hundred."

"I have to show all my work, so it takes forever." Justin said, sighing. "I'll call you again soon. Can you live without me until then?"

"With therapy, I might be able to manage. Remember, keep me updated. My phones always on, so if there's something urgent, _call me_. The police will need as much help on this as possible. Make sure the updates are in a form that I can just forward to the detectives."

"All right then. Later."

"Later."

Zita snapped her phone shut and pulled out her laptop. Fin had given her his work e-mail address and she had a feeling he was probably still there.

Revenge _was_ sweet and at this rate, it would probably be so for quite a while.

Or would it?

* * *

"Voulez-vous lui donner une crise cardiaque?"

Do you want to give her a heart attack?


	6. Chapter 5

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

A/N: All right, does anyone still want to read this? I mean, out of 727 hits, I have gotten 4 reviews. Does this mean that it's so bad that no one has anything worthwhile to say or what? If there's no point in continuing, please tell me.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Thursday, December 21, 2003

The past almost-two months flew past. Zita and Bowan had become well-entrenched in their new life in New York, with Zita spending most of her time looking over the evidence of cases the NYPD has deemed cold. It had been a long-practiced hobby of hers and she had managed to solve five such cases since her arrival. John and Bowan had grown very close and they could often be seen leaving the station together, hand-in-hand – early. John had never been one to leave before, at least, 8 P.M. unless he was very sick or had to visit someone in the hospital. He looked healthier, too, even happy from time to time. Not facade happy, but genuinely in a better mood. Fin and Zita had a precinct bet going regarding how long it was going to be until a ring appeared on Bowan's finger. Life seemed to be looking up.

Justin had been updating Zita and the detectives almost daily on the spending habits of Bruno and Pierre. The two appeared to be getting lax in their efforts to remain untraceable, as Justin never tired of crowing about over the phone.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that no one, including a technological genius, noticed was that the purchases were getting closer to Manhattan.

* * *

Zita and Bowan had found the gold at the end of the rainbow. They had taken their time in searching for a house, as Bowan and John had been getting along so well under one roof, but it was obvious that sleeping on the couch for almost two months was probably not the best thing for a man well over the wrong side of fifty to be doing. So Bowan called a realtor and within a week, Bowan and Zita had closed on a townhouse in Queens. All that was left to do was call the employees at the Plouvin estate and ask them to ship the runaways the things they had neglected to bring with them, pack up the stuff they did bring, and break the news to John. 

At the present, boxes from France were beginning to fill the lower rooms of the townhouse and Bowan was beginning to receive bills from furniture companies. She was putting off telling John. In the weeks that she had been staying with him, they had ditched the idea of taking it slow, reasoning that things tended to happen quickly when two forty-plus-year-olds felt like teenagers again.

Staring off into space over her coffee cup, Bowan smiled at the memory of a few nights before. Zita had been at the precinct, looking over a case with Fin, off-the-record, of course and Etienne, confident that no one would try to kidnap, assassinate, etc. her in a police station, left her there to go on the date that she had finally convinced him to go on, saying that he would be back to take her and Fin home afterwards. When Zita had arrived home that night around eleven, she found her mother and John on the couch in front of a movie that neither were paying any attention to, because they were too busy making out like teenagers in a movie theater. To her credit, the real teenager had taken it remarkably well, simply covering Etienne's eyes, as he was halfway through the door, and leading him back out, saying something about needing to take Reggie for a walk. An awkward silence had ensued when Zita got back, but she broke it when she fell into a massive laughing fit at the expressions on the adults' faces.

Zita and John had also bonded despite her similarity to an FBI agent. Well, bonded was slight misnomer. They were joined at the hip and she and Fin were best friends. It was hardly uncommon to see the three of them involved in some sort of discussion/debate over a newspaper article. Somehow, Zita always won, which was the only thing that got John and Fin to get back to their work, which, in turn, further endeared her to the hearts of the other detectives and Cragen, who had already assumed position of grandparent. Even Casey liked her, especially after she heard that Zita had graduated from Harvard three years after starting online courses ("Finally! Another legal-minded constant in the SVU squadroom!"). In fact, there were very few people who were indifferent or less as to the SVU's new junior golden girl, or her dog, whom, more often than not, stowed away in her backpack, much to the annoyance of the desk sergeant, who did not like small dogs.

Even John, the self-proclaimed dog repellent, had warmed up to the little wad of hair. Perhaps it had something to do with Reggie's comical habit of getting into the clean laundry and, finding that socks tended to stick to him thanks to static electricity, bringing John his clean, yet slightly haired, socks among other small pieces of laundry – not to say that he did not try for larger. It was only a week before that John had caught him with a twin-sized fitted sheet folded around his head as the dog dashed across the kitchen floor to run into the wall on the other side of the room. Reggie had not tried for anything larger than a t-shirt after that. But the most heart-warming moment between John and the yorkie had occurred just the night before, when Zita took a picture with her cell phone of the two of them on the couch with Reggie snuggled up under the man's chin, both fast asleep. Bowan could hear Fin laughing when he called Zita back after she sent him the picture. Fortunately for John, he had promised not to use the picture for blackmail, but no way would he keep the picture completely to himself. It appeared that Sir Reginald III was there to stay.

* * *

SVU Squadroom

2:00 P.M.

* * *

Zita was sitting at John's desk while he was out with Fin, Olivia, and Elliot canvassing the neighborhood of a girl around fourteen years of age found raped and murdered in a school's janitor closet. Luc Brenoille, Zita's partner in the Paris police department, had special-shipped her the case file for an investigation they had been in the middle of when she left so she could work on it. The case was not a pretty one. A double rape-homicide and a kidnaping. Two best friends at an unsupervised sleep-over and a missing little sister, age six. Zita shivered and shook her head. That was when the abuse had actually begun for her. Pierre did not even know about it. Just Bruno. _NO!_ she told herself, This_ is the case that matters, not your own stupid issues! That was eleven years ago!_ But a voice she had grown accustomed to ignoring still whispered unheeded, _But it ended only three months ago and you haven't let it heal_.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of the four NYPD detectives from their wintry jaunt around town. They were all arguing about something John had probably brought up.

"Just because on one's ever seen them doesn't mean they don't exist. We only use about ten percent of our brains – who knows what humans could pick up on if we used the other ninety percent?"

Yup. Definitely John.

"Look, aliens did not kidnap Elvis, nor is the government, FBI, CIA, or the military hiding the general public from the fact that UFOs exist – assuming that they do, in fact, exist." Elliot was saying as he stepped over to the coffee maker to find that the coffee was either old or gone, which hardly improved his mood. He began cursing and muttering under his breath as he prepared a new pot.

Zita's eyes never left her computer screen. "Etienne's bringing Starbucks if you want to wait a few minutes, Elliot."

The detective dropped the filters he was wrestling with, leaving them for someone else to straighten out. "Thanks."

Zita nodded in acknowledgment as John continued the debate.

"I never said anything about the military, Elliot. They're in on this, too?"

Fin snorted from his spot at his desk across from where Zita had entrenched herself. She looked up at him. "Has anyone around here considered cancelling his _National Enquirer_ subscription?"

"Tried and failed, my dear, tried and failed." John answered for him.

Zita looked up. John was giving her the over-the-rims look.

"Yes?"

"That would be my chair."

Zita attempted a hurt look. "You would kick the invalid out of a chair? Where are your manners, sir?" she exclaimed, beginning to gather her things together for a speedy transference.

"I'm not as young as I used to be, I'm cold and I'm grumpy because of it and you got your cast off yesterday – you're hardly an invalid – so don't make me tip you out of this chair." John replied, grabbing the back of the chair and tipping it sharply forward a few inches, causing her to drop the files she was picking up and grab hold of the chair arms.

"_No!_ I'm getting up! Don't tip me!"

Zita got up hurriedly and retreated to a chair sitting beside the desk to the sounds of the squad's laughter.

"What'd I miss?"

They looked up as Etienne arrived with the coffee. "Nothin'." Zita answered, trying to maintain a poker face.

"Tell me later!" the bodyguard whispered to the detectives as he passed out the drinks.

"I heard that!"

"Glad you're not deaf." he replied, setting a latte in front of her.

Olivia picked up a picture from where it had fallen. It portrayed a bloody crime scene, complete with bloody sheets which wrapped, presumably, two bloody bodies. After a moment's hard staring, Olivia passed the photo to John. "This isn't one of ours, is it? I don't recognize the room."

Zita saw the picture over John's shoulder. She pulled it gently from his hands and slipped it back in her file folder. "That's mine, actually."

The detectives looked at her strangely. "What?" she asked defensively, "You have your cases, I have mine. Any luck in your canvassing?"

Elliot shook his head. "No one knew her. At least they say they didn't."

"And he isn't in any databases?"

Fin shook his head. "No records of her's or her attacker's DNA in our system."

"I suppose it would be too easy if there was a similar missing person's report."

Nods and "uh-huh"s all around.

"Hmmm. Sticky."

Olivia decided to change the subject. "So, Zita, any luck with the house-hunting?" she asked, sitting on the edge of John's desk.

"We're looking at one." Zita lied. Bowan had wanted to break the news to John herself. "'T's in Queens."

"Ah! I win!" Elliot said victoriously, reaching out and taking a ten dollar bill from Olivia.

"Apartment?" Fin asked.

Zita shook her head. "Townhouse."

"Is it nice?"

"That's one of the reasons we're seriously considering it. We've put in a bid, but nothing's set in stone." She really hated this lying thing. She was almost grateful when Etienne's phone rang and he tapped her on the shoulder.

"You have physical therapy. We'll probably be late, even if we leave now, so pack it up, let's go."

* * *

Nello Italian Restaurant

696 Madison Avenue

Upper East Side

7:00 P.M.

* * *

"Zita said something about you two looking at a place in Queens."

John and Bowan were out on yet another date – it was the fourth one that week and it was only Thursday. But this once-a-day thing had become very commonplace during the past two weeks. So much for taking things very slow.

"Yeah, we really _found_ one around December first and we've been moving in ever since. I told Zita not to say anything about it because I was waiting to tell you myself. I was waiting until we got closer to being ready to move in to tell you."

"So you like it. OK part of the neighborhood?"

Bowan nodded. "I was surprised it was still on the market."

"'S good." John replied, nodding back, trying to hide his disappointment behind his wineglass. He was hardly ready for his new family to leave.

Bowan saw right through it. "No it's not. Not to you. What is it?"

That brought his focus from his wine back to her. She had that _look_ on her face. The one he had always met emotionally with a mixture of love and hatred. She knew what he was thinking and she had not intention of hiding it.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Bowan, I . . . I – "

Bowan reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "John? You don't want us to move, do you?"

John had not noticed just how blue her eyes were in almost three seconds. "No. I lost you once and I can't tell you what it's been like for me getting you back – both of you. I already don't spend enough time with you, and with you living on your own, I'll see you even less. I see Zita almost all day almost every day. I miss you when you're not with me." he said, flipping his hand over so he could hold hers.

"What are we going to do about you on the couch? I'm not going to be a hypocrite to the daughter I've taught willing abstinence to since age ten."

John chuckled at that. "I'll look for a futon." he said hurriedly, for the real reason for the evening was burning a hole in his pocket. "Bowan, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

The detective reached into his pocket. "I've been waiting a long time to ask this." he stalled – he was having difficulty getting the reason out of his pocket. "I'd kneel, but I'm a little too far across the fifty-year-line." he said, opening the little black velvet box.

The diamonds set in the silver glimmered brightly in the light of the restaurant's chandelier, but, to John, her smile outdid the jewels.

"You've waited all this time?" It was all she could think of to say.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Bowan could hardly whisper as she nodded. "Yes, John, that's a yes!"

* * *

John Munch's Apartment

8:30 P.M.

* * *

Bowan and John were in the middle of a particularly spectacular kiss when John's cell phone rang. At first they tried to ignore it, but after the fifth ring, Bowan broke the kiss. "You'd better get that." 

Grumpy about the interruption, John fumbled around in his pocket and produced the ringing phone.

"Fin, you have lousy timing."

Fin was hardly in the mood. "Too bad. Listen, you need to get back to the precinct."

"This can't wait?"

"I wouldn't be callin' you now if it could."

"And you _have_ to have my help?"

"Munch. Get your bony butt down here!"

John sighed gustily. "All right. Be there in ten." He shut the phone, turning back to his new fiancé. "I'm sorry, Bowan, I've gotta go back to the station house. Fin says it can't wait."

"It's all right, John. Xavier's here. I understand – remember, I was a detective once, too. Just be careful, okay?"

John kissed her forehead. "I'll try. Hopefully, I'll be home soon. Love you."

"Love you, too."

* * *

SVU Squadroom

8:48 P.M.

* * *

Zita and Etienne had spent the majority of the day at the precinct, with Etienne sitting out of the way, his nose immersed in a copy of _Guns & Ammo_, and Zita working on her case at her spot at the end of John's and Fin's desks or actually at John's desk when he was not sitting in it himself, helping herself to the use of his computer, since her's was having difficulty charging back at John's apartment. Besides a few small, fruitless leads on some minor side cases, the day had been very slow for the 1-6. At least until about twenty minutes before, when Zita's phone had rung, waking Fin from his half-doze. 

"What's goin' on, Justin?"

"Zita, he's in the city. And not just to go to a show. He wouldn't take that kind of risk. Maybe with credit cards, but not with this."

"Bruno's here?"

"He just made a purchase at a drug store on Thirty-fifth."

"Hold on, let me put you on speaker . . . All right, now say again."

Fin, Cragen, Olivia, and Elliot leaned in to hear Zita's informant as he repeated the message.

Fin looked grimly across his desk at Zita, addressing Justin. "Is there any chance that he would know where Zita and Bowan are staying?"

"Anything's possible, Detective, so, definitely. Not a huge chance, but he's not stupid. He'll probably check the precinct first after the hotel room, so if anyone's in there –"

"They're empty. Etienne's here with me and Xavier's with mom at the apartment unless she and John aren't back yet."

"What's the chance that Bruno or Pierre know where that apartment is?" Justin asked, worried.

"Anything's possible." she re-quoted him, "A good eighty-five percent, 'cause I know Bruno and Pierre. At any rate, I doubt Xavier can't stop them."

"I'll call John." Fin said, whipping out his cell phone and punching in a number on his speed dial.

"I'll get a stake-out set up at his targets." Cragen said, "Zita, you shouldn't be here, just in case they do come here. All they'd have to do is open a phone book for an address, but John's not in the phonebook. You and Etienne head back to the apartment with your mother. Two bodyguards together are better than one. Benson, Stabler, you head over to the Ritz now. Fin, wait here for John then head to the Ritz – it's the biggest target. Zita, make sure when you get back to the apartment that all doors and windows are locked and all the lights are out."

"Uh, hello? Down here in the phone!"

The detectives halted their activities to stare at Zita's cell phone.

"Make it quick, Justin." Cragen barked.

"We have an agent in Manhattan investigating an American drug trafficer moving drugs into Europe. We caught the guy this morning. About an hour later, Bruno made a purchase just outside the city. We faxed our agent his picture and sent him to talk to the store manager. Manager said Bruno drove off in a European model black sedan with a French license plate. Didn't get the number, but a French plate is pretty easy to spot amid a bunch of American ones. You may meet up with him if he's still in the States."

"We'll take that into account, thanks." Elliot said.

"Anytime. If I get any updates, I'll call. Good luck, guys."

"Thanks, Just."

Zita ended the call and grabbed her backpack, which Reggie had been peacefully sleeping on.

"Let's go." Etienne said, "Car's out front."

"Let's move, people!" Cragen called.

* * *

Ally by John Munch's Apartment

8:56 P.M.

* * *

"_Vous êtes sûr personne ne sait que vous êtes ici?_" (You're sure no one know's you're here?) 

"_Oui, monsieur. J'ai laissé la voiture à l'hôtel. Tous les détectives se dirigeraient là-bas._" (Yes, sir. I left the car at the hotel. All the detectives would be heading over there.)

"_Et vous êtes positif que le détective qu'ils restent avec soit parti?_" (And you're positive that the detective they're staying with has left?)

"_Je l'ai vu partir avec mes propres deux yeux._" (I saw him leave with my own two eyes.)

"_Bon. Allez._" (Good. Go.)

An evil smile spread across Bruno's face. Pierre did not have to tell him twice.

* * *

Outside the Ritz Hotel

8:58 P.M.

* * *

Elliot and Olivia approached the black sedan carefully. A man was standing, examining the car much closer than the average admirer. The watched as he pulled something small and black from his coat pocket and place it on the inside of the back bumper, where no one would be likely to check for anything. He was an inconspicuous-looking man, but his activities seemed a little more questionable.

The detectives took their places behind him an Olivia pulled out her badge. "Whatcha doin' there?"

When the man turned and looked at them, Elliot grabbed his arms and cuffed him. "Bruno Arnoulle, you are under arrest for multiple rapes in the first –"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait! You think _I'm_ Arnoulle? Release my hands now!" the man said with a mix of worry and indignance.

"And why should we do that, Arnoulle?" Elliot asked, tightening the cuffs.

"If you want Interpol and your IAB on your backs, by all means, take me in." he whispered harshly.

Elliot looked over at Olivia, who was the first to respond. "You're Interpol?" she asked under her breath.

"My badge is in the lining of my coat's left breast pocket. Release my hands before you make a scene."

Elliot uncuffed the Interpol agent and watched as he pulled his badge from his pocket, handing it to Elliot.

"Special Agent Kent Vega. Interpol." Elliot read, then looked up at the tall, dark-skinned man. "What were you doing to the car?"

Vega looked back and forth between the detectives. "This is completely off the record. No one except you two know about this." whispered the agent.

The detectives knew that they could lose their jobs and jeopardize any Interpol investigations if they said anything. They nodded in understanding.

"I'm only telling you this," he hissed, "because you're probably working on Bowan and Zita's case and Zita Plouvin happens to be my partner and a very good friend of mine. It's a GPS device. Now, you've never seen me before."

And with that, he retrieved his badge from the detectives and melted back into the crowd.

"I had a feeling that Interpol would be involved in this eventually." John said bitterly. He not only disliked the vast majority of bureaucratic institutions, but also knew what defense and higher-echelon police agencies tended to do – namely, take over investigations ordinary detectives had been immersed in for months.

"There's no time for your moaning, Munch." Cragen said, "I've got men in their positions around the precinct and a block away from your apartment in all directions. Now let's get in _our_ positions."

* * *

Outside John Munch's Apartment

8:58 P.M.

* * *

Bruno had served in the French army for several years before going into the personal protections business, and his military training and physic still remained. By this time, he had already scaled the outer wall of the building and sat, crouching beneath a window on the fire escape, unnoticed entirely by those on the nearby street. He held his gun, cocked, knowing full-well the training Xavier had gone through. Bruno had never gone to a bodyguard academy – his military training had been enough for Pierre. 

From what he could see, Bowan was in the bedroom across the hall, which he could see through the open door of the room he was looking into. Xavier would be somewhere else in the apartment, but he could not see anything besides the two bedrooms from that window, and he was not about to risk going in from the front of the building. Not knowing would have to do.

He reaced up and pushed on the window. It was locked. Bruno had not really expected otherwise. Zita was a teenager, but she was not as irresponsible or careless as most of the young people he had come in contact. Also, it was the dead of winter and no one in their right mind would have the window open. The bodyguard unsheathed a thin-bladed army knife and wiggled it in between the window and the frame, jerking upwards and breaking the lock. He was surprised how little effort it had taken. The lock must have dated back to the Nixon Administration.

Bruno crouched back down below the window, just in case someone inside had heard. He waited, ten seconds . . . twenty seconds . . . thirty. No one came running in, waving a gun, to see what the noise was, so, after waiting an additional five seconds, he pushed the window up and climbed stealthily inside.

* * *

Hallway Outside John Munch's Apartment

9:15 P.M.

* * *

Etienne was used to Zita's irritability. Being sent to a safe house when other detectives were sent out into the field was not something she enjoyed, and, thankfully, it did not happen very often. However, a lot of grumbling was heard from the backseat of the car when it did. 

"Zita, this isn't _your_ case. You know that. It's the responsibility of the detectives, and me, incidently, to keep you safe. Every once in a while, you might want to try letting us – just to shake things up a bit and make our jobs easier."

The teenager was still cross about being left out of the action, but had to admit that her bodyguard was right. "Yeah, yeah, I know." she muttered grudgingly, opening the door.

What she saw when she stepped into the apartment brought her hand instantly to her sidearm.

Blood spatters across the far living room wall.

Etienne stepped quickly in front of Zita, pulling his own weapon. "Who's here?" he called out. "Show yourself!"

A moan was heard from out of view behind the couch.

Etienne rushed over to the moan. "Xavier!"

The older bodyguard lay on the floor, doubled up, holding his chest and leg, both of which were bleeding profusely from bullet wounds.

Etienne looked up at Zita as he punched in 9-1-1. "Go find your mother!"

Zita was almost frozen in shock. She could not believe this happened.

"Zita!"

"What?" she asked, her eyes unfocused and her voice distant-sounding.

"Snap out of it! Go find your mother!" he cried, then turned back to Xavier. "Yes, I'd like to report an assault and break-in. . . "

Zita ran from room to room until she got to the scene in her mother's bedroom, where she let out a small scream at the sight.

There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on the carpet, but mostly on the bed, where Bowan's body also lay. Zita felt like she was going to faint looking at her mother, murdered, but she found it impossible to tear her eyes away. She could not breathe, could not hear. She felt like she was lost in an X-Files or Twilight Zone episode – completely detached from reality.

She felt someone shaking her shoulder and heard someone call her name through the haze of shock and looked up to see Etienne, who, after much persuasion from Xavier, agreed to leave him and check on his charge. The bodyguard pulled her into his arms in effort to calm her down and take her eyes away from the carnage, to no avail.

"Zita, Zita, calm down, _cara_. Go to your room. Call John. Tell him what happened, all right? Let him take care of it."

Still relatively unable to speak, Zita merely nodded and obeyed as Etienne ushered her from the room.

* * *

Ritz Hotel Lobby

9:25 P.M.

* * *

John stood at a postcard rack in the hotel lobby, willing the large man blocking his view to move. What was it with some people? Did they have nothing better to do than just stand around? He sighed. Apparently not. 

He jumped in surprise when his phone rand and he fumbled with the handset as he opened the phone.

"Munch."

"John, he's not at the Ritz!"

It was Zita. She sounded a little more than upset – scared, even. He felt his heart rate speed up. This was not happening.

"Zita, what happened?"

She was now close to hysterics. It seemed that actually having to say it brought the fact home to her. "He shot her, John! He broke in and shot her! Her and Xavier! Th–"

John's heart sank then broke, but he maintained his composure. It _was_ happening. "Zita, Zita, calm down! You're at the apartment?"

She was not almost-screaming now and seemed significantly calmer, but the tremble in her voice was still there and he could still hear her accelerated breathing. "Yes."

"Fin and I'll be there in five minutes. Are you all right?"

"Physically, okay."

"All right, what about Xavier? You said he was shot. How bad?" he asked, struggling to keep his head, motioning to Fin as the older detective made his way toward the exit."

"Etienne's already called for an ambulance. Shot in the chest and leg."

"All right. Stay there, the ambulance will be there any second."

"Okay."

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, sliding into the driver's seat.

"I think so. The ambulance just got here."

"Good. We're on our way."

John shut his phone as he pulled away from the Ritz. "Fin, call the captain. Tell 'im we were too late."


	7. Chapter 6

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

A/N: Again, does anyone still want to read this? I mean, out of 970 hits, I have gotten 4 reviews, all of those being during the first 3 chapters, which leads me to assume that no one is reading any of this past chapter 2. If there's no point in continuing, please tell me.

**Chapter 6**

John Munch's Apartment

9:50 P.M

"I'm sorry, sirs, you can't go in there." one of the unis told John and Fin as they approached the apartment.

The SVU detectives whipped out their badges at that announcement. "It's mine." John growled as they pushed past the uni into the crime scene.

The medics were loading Xavier onto a stretcher and Etienne was talking to Zita, who was sitting in the dining room out of the way. They could not hear what was said, nor could they have understood it, as the two were talking in French, but Zita nodded and her bodyguard left to go with Xavier. She stood as John ran over and enveloped her in a bear hug, holding her as she broke into tears yet again.

"John, there was blood everywhere and there was nothing I could do! It was too late!" she sobbed into his chest.

John ignored they eyes he could feel on his back as he did his best to comfort his surrogate daughter until Fin glared at the gawkers and they went back to their work. The older detective tried to hold back his own tears, succeeding for the most part. Zita had had to be strong for each other, but now that Zita's strength was failing, he felt it was up to him to make up for the loss of the little girl inside the young woman clinging to him with all the sanity she had left. She had seen the mutilated body of her mother and her mother's bodyguard lying shot on the floor. It was a miracle she was not crazy yet.

The M.E. staff could be seen beginning to wheel out a black body bag on a stretcher. John motioned to Fin, who was standing a respectful distance away. "Fin, get her out of here. She shouldn't be here." He looked down at Zita. "Can you go with Fin?"

She nodded slightly, rubbing her tears from her face with the back of her hand, and let Fin lead her away. At the sound of the gurney wheels hitting the linoleum floor, she started to turn back, but the detective blocked her view with the arm he had wrapped around her shoulders.

"No, baby, don't look. You don't wanna see."

John watched as Fin and Zita left the apartment. It was doubtful that he would ever be able to live here again – not after what had happened that night. _I guess it's the crib for you until you find somewhere else to sleep – if you get to sleep at all any time soon._ he thought. Of course, these ponderings were only his means of distracting himself from dark reality. His distraction would not last long, for his thoughts were soon interrupted by a CSU investigator.

"Detecive, you should see this."

The words of the paper, though bloody and viewed through a plastic evidence bag, were all too legible.

_Merry Christmas, Detective Munch._

There would definitely be no sleep for him tonight.

* * *

"Look, Zi, it wasn't your fault." 

"He'd been stalking us back to John's apartment, Fin, and I didn't notice! Our names and locations weren't released to the public. There was no other way for him to know! It's a miracle he hasn't found out where the new place is – he would have killed us just as easily there."

Fin maneuvered the car through the traffic, honking his horn loudly at an SUV that cut in front of him. Zita knew it was her responsibility to make sure Xavier was taken good care of as his now-employer, so they were headed to Bellevue. Etienne had gone in the ambulance with Xavier. The older bodyguard was his mentor and he loved him like a brother. Zita had not had the heart to make him stay with her when Xavier was at death's doormat.

The NYPD detective had observed the grieving process many times and, somehow, he was not surprised to find that Zita was an exception to the rule. Shock, denial, sadness, anger, guilt, sometimes therapy, acceptance, then on with your life for most of the left-behind homicide victims; Zita, however, has gone right ahead and skipped anger and denial and combined the guilt and sadness steps. She blamed herself for all of what happened, and probably would until/if the anger ever returned, or someone or something convinced her otherwise. Through his peripheral vision, he could see the tears trickling silently down her face. He sighed. The young woman Fin had come to call "his angel girl" was going to be hurting for a long time. "We were in the wrong place. We headed for the hotel. If we had gone straight to the apartment, it could have been prevented."

"You went to the hotel because I mentioned that Pierre and Bruno didn't know about John's apartment or that Xavier could take care of things. I should have remembered that he doesn't wear his Kevlar when he's at home or in some semblance of home. Now he could be dying, too." she said, petting Reggie, whom she had managed to grab from one of the unis before he was placed in a kennel to be taken to a pound.

"He's in good hands, Zita, I went there when I got shot." he tried to assure her, not certain that it was working., "They know what they're doing."

She wanted to believe the words she was hearing, but Zita knew Fin's injury had not been as bad as Xavier's. She honestly did not know how she would live with herself if Xavier died. Etienne would never be the same again.

* * *

Bellevue Hospital

10:30 P.M.

* * *

The hospital was busier than usual when Fin dropped her off before going to pick John up. It was against his better judgement, but John did not have a car and he was hurting as much as Zita was and would, more than likely, be very anxious to get away from the apartment. 

Despite the surplus of humanity, it was not difficult to pick Etienne out in the crowded waiting room. He was almost seven feet tall.

"How is he?" Zita asked as he stood to meet her, thereby relinquishing his seat to another patient waiting more minor medical attention.

"I don't know. The doctors haven't told me anything yet. He kept repeating himself the whole time in the ambulance – he's beside himself with what happened, Zi."

"He's not to blame. He did all he could."

"Mister Dupont? Or family of Mister Xavier Cousteau?"

A doctor stood at the door leading to the recovery ward, striving to pick out the man his patient had arrived with.

Etienne and Zita looked at each other. Did they really want to know? "Over here." Etienne called, not looking up from Zita, who was trying to keep Reggie from poking his head out of his hiding spot in her coat pocket.

The worried pair met the doctor just on the other side of the recovery ward doors, careful of the waiting patients on the floor for lack of chairs.

"How is he, doctor?"

"Well, he was touch and go for most of it, lost a _lot_ of blood," the doctor said, motioning for them to follow him down the hallway, "but he's stable now. Unconscious and in a lot of pain when he wakes up and for about two weeks, but he'll pull through."

"Define 'lot of pain.' Too-sick-to-eat pain, popping-pain-pills-till-addicted pain, suicidal/homicidal/crazy pain?" Zita asked, recalling her last stint in a hospital back in France. In the process of chasing a perp, she had been hit by a car. She would never wish that kind of agony on anyone save her worst enemy, especially after tonight.

"I doubt the last level, but either of the first two could be a possibility, depending on his pain tolerance." the doctor replied. "I'll prescribe some Vicadin."

"He won't take it." Etienne said, "He's paranoid about getting addicted to prescription pain meds. No pills. He'll take stuff in a hospital, but once he leaves, he'll bite the bullet."

"Well, I don't know what else I can do for him. I can't have my nurses follow him around for the next weeks with a syringe of morphine."

"What about a portable pump?" Zita asked, recalling the medical God-send she had discovered back in France. "A morphine pump?"

"They're not cheap and we don't have a surplus. We may not have one available."

"Money's no object. Check on the pump." Zita said, "I'll take care of it."

The doctor looked up at Etienne, the adult of the pair. He shrugged and the doctor nodded submissively. If Zita said she was going to take care of something, you could bet lives that she would do it and that she would have no intention of being talked out of it.

"All right," the doctor said, "I'll get a nurse on it. This is his room. He should wake up in a little while."

As the doctor's footsteps receded down the hall, Etienne and Zita looked at each other again. The bodyguard could see the guilty expression start to creep onto her face to replace the expression of worry. "Zita, yet again, this was not your fault. Xavier's going to be fine – you heard the doctor. There was nothing you could've done."

"Whatever you say, Tienne." she replied quietly as she stepped past him into the hospital room.

Etienne shook his head, sighing. If it were not for Zita's vehemently-proclaimed dislike for shrinks, he would suggest therapy. For someone who spent so much time reassuring victims and their families that what happened to them was not their fault, his little sister was taking too much of this on her own shoulders.

* * *

10:50 P.M.

* * *

Obviously, John was not staying in his apartment that night, even if CSU was done with it. It was near-impossible for him to stay long enough to pack some clothes and other necessities and wait while Olivia, who had arrived with Elliot and Cragen soon after Fin and Zita left, packed some clothes for Zita and Zita's laptop. John had needed no extra prodding to leave, even if it was for the hospital. 

Fin and John drove most of the way to Bellevue in silence. There was nothing more to say – nothing that would make any difference in matters, at least.

It was John who eventually broke the silence. "You know, the only consolation I have is the fact that, this time, I managed to get the engagement ring on her finger before I lost her."

"That was probably her's too." Fin replied, glancing over at his partner.

"What do you mean?"

Fin took a deep breath. It was not often that he had useful (or possibly useful) insights into the finer points of emotions, much less feel that it was an occasion to voice them. "All right, this is more than a little out of character for me, but just knowing that you loved her enough to propose and the fact that you made the promise to her that you would be there for her and Zita just as you had before the ring made her pain easier. I mean, it's easier to go through pain when you know that someone, somewhere, cares."

"You're right." John said, opening the door of the sedan as Fin turned the car off. "That was _very_ out of character for you, but thanks."

"Did it actually help?" Fin asked, locking the car, surprised at John's sentiment.

"Not really, but not a lot will right now."

"Gonna take some time off?"

"I don't know. Depends on how Zita is."

"Now that Bowan's gone, will they let her stay with you? You're not her legal guardian."

"Not so. Her grandfather has legal custody should something happen to Bowan and Pierre. When I called him while I was waiting for you to bring the car around, he told me that he was on business in Germany that couldn't be postponed. He said he'd call his lawyer and waive the right of custody until he gets back. In March."

"So she's staying with you until March?"

"O'Malley didn't seem too enthused with the idea of having a teenager around, so there's a possibility of him waiving the right to custody altogether, so she may be staying longer . . . until we find some other relative." John answered, covering his last statement with what he hoped was an explanation that Fin would not see through.

Which, of course, he did. "You want to adopt her?"

John tried to shrug nonchalantly. "Depends on what her grandfather decides to do. She knows me, I know her. I already feel responsible for her." he answered but right now, Zita's stuck with me."

Fin held the door open as they got to the entrance. "Somehow, I doubt Zita sees it as being stuck with you."

John just shrugged again. He was still not willing to get his hopes up. It would only make it harder if he knew Zita wanted him as a father.

* * *

"He's in room 106, down the hall on your right, through those doors. Another man and a girl are in there with him." the nurse at the desk said, pointing. 

The detectives nodded their thanks and headed for the room. John was really beginning to hate hospitals. Between the three victims he had been working the cases of, he had spent two and a half hours each day at one of the hospitals in the city, and now this.

Xavier was still asleep when they entered the room. Zita managed to fall asleep in one of the chairs beside the bed, with Reggie snuggled up on her lap. Etienne sat in the other, gazing off into space, almost asleep himself. It had been a long, exhausting day, to say the least.

Etienne looked up slowly as the detectives neared the bed. "Detectives."

"How's he doin'?" John asked, coming to stand behind Zita.

"Doctor says he'll be in a lot of pain, but Zita arranged for a morphine pump, so it won't be too bad. The injury might have ended his career, though. The bullet lodged only a couple inches from his heart, so he's lucky to be alive. They're both taking what happened pretty hard." he replied, motioning to Zita.

"They're not the only ones." Fin said with a pointed glance at John.

John gave his partner a "shut up!" glare. "She blames herself?"

Etienne nodded. "There's no talking her out of it."

"You know, boys, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about me as it I weren't right here." Zita mumbled groggily, opening one eye.

John stroked her hair. "Sorry, we thought you were asleep."

"'S okay. CSU done with the apartment already?"

Fin shook his head. "Elliot and Olivia have taken over so John could leave. They won't be done for a while. Liv packed up some of your stuff – it's in the car."

"Thanks."

A nurse knocked on the door, interrupting the conversation. "Excuse me, visiting hours are long over."

"Can one person stay?" Etienne asked, loathe to leave his co-worker. He owed him his life several times over; the least he could do was stay with Xavier.

The nurse thought for a few moments. Technically, this was not under her jurisdiction. "Are you family?"

Etienne shook his head. "No. Close friends."

The nurse sighed. She could get in a lot of trouble for this, but the room was only set up for one and there was more than enough room for Etienne and whatever doctors needed to filter through. Besides, this visitor would have more time to monitor the patient than any of the nurses. The one in the bed had almost died, for crying out loud. "All right. One person, but the rest of you will have to come back tomorrow. Visiting hours start at ten."

When the nurse left, Etienne turned to Zita, who was gathering Reggie back up and situating him in her coat pocket. "Zita, I know it's my responsibility to stay with you, but -"

"Yeah, go ahead." she answered, "I'll be okay. Do you have everything you need?"

He nodded. "I'll pick up whatever else I need after he wakes up and goes back to sleep. I'll work it out. Try and get some sleep, huh?"

"Yeah, right. No promises. See you later." she sighed, turning to leave behind Much and Fin. As she reached the door, she turned again. "If Xavier's still broken up about this, tell him that I understand and that my mom would have, too. Okay?"

Etienne nodded. "I'll tell 'im."

* * *

Even Reggie was subdued in the car. Zita sat in the back with him and the suitcases, trying to concentrate on her case back in France rather than what had happened. Her cases, while generally insane in nature, were her main sanity. They helped her forget her problems, though working a case involving that much blood and tears might not be the way to go right now. She sighed again for what felt like the millionth time that night. It was not working. Every time her mind went over the crime scene, the bodies in the sheets became her mother's. No matter what she did, Zita could not get that image out of her mind. How could such a good day go so wrong so fast? 

She watched the city go by through the window. The sidewalks were still full of Christmas shoppers bustling from store to store, though the population had thinned considerably since their last run through the city. Christmas music blared through speakers, each playing a different song, from the many shops – the city went on, blissfully unaware of what had happened. And why would it not be? It had not happened to those people on the streets or to anyone they knew. Zita sighed for the millionth and first time. For her, Christmas would not come that year.

* * *

By the time they pulled up in front of the stationhouse, it was a quarter after eleven and Zita was half-asleep from sheer exhaustion. 

"What? Did someone forget something?" she asked groggily.

Looking back, John shook his head and opened his door. "Until CSU gets done with the apartment, we can't even go back there unless we're there on police business. Fin offered to let us stay with him, but he doesn't have the room and I know it. I'll start looking for a place tomorrow, but the crib's really our only option for tonight."

Zita stayed where she was, but unbuckled her seatbelt, just in case he did not take her suggestion. "What about the townhouse? We have furniture there already – beds an' stuff. We weren't going to actually move until Mom told you, but a lot of our stuff's there."

John pulled his foot back into the car and shut the door. "Do you know how to get there?"

Zita nodded. "Yeah, if Fin wants to drive."

Fin did not even answer before putting the car back in gear. "Get your seatbelts back on. I don't know about France, but in New York, it's the law."

Zita smiled slightly. _Who needs a bodyguard when you've got two cops keeping track of you?_

* * *

After searching though boxes for half an hour, John and Zita finally managed to find sheets and get them on the two beds that had arrived three days before form Pottery Barn. Fin left soon after making sure they were all right. His concern had been touching, but more than anything else, both Zita just wanted to be alone in her new, unfamiliar room with the door shut and her dog so she could cry. She had always been afraid to cry in front of people. In fact, that night had been the first time in over ten years. There were many people back in Europe who saw her as a cold, uncaring rich kid that only thought about her silver-spoon lifestyle, but that was hardly the case; Zita would not be putting her neck on the block as often as she did if she did not care. She cried more often than she cared to say – it was just that the only ones that she knowingly cried in front of were Bowan, Etienne, and Xavier, and she rarely cried around them. Zita never understood why – maybe because she knew they would not judge her for it, would not call her weak for crying over something. 

Perhaps that was all about to change. John had not judged her. Fin had not judged her. Neither had anyone else. She had lost her mother, after all.

And it was in the midst of this tearfest that her phone rang. _The Pink Panther_ theme. Her French partner Luc's all-time favorite movie.

"Bonjour, Luc."

"_Quel est erroné?"_ **(What's wrong?)**

"_Ce qui vous signifient, 'ce qui est erroné?'"_ she asked,_"Qui a indiqué quelque chose mal?"_** (What do you mean 'what's wrong?' / Who said anything's wrong?)**

"_Ne me donnez pas cela, Zi. Je peux l'entendre dans votre voix. Vous aviez pleuré. Est-ce que quelque chose s'est produite?"_ (**Don't give me that, Zi. I can hear it in your voice. You've been crying. Did something happen?)**

Zita sighed. There was no hiding anything from her partner. _"Elle est allée, Luc."_ **(She's gone, Luc.)**

"_Que voulez-vous dire le allé '?"_ **(What do you mean, 'gone'?)**

"_Je veux dire, nous-ai-reçu-un appel-de l'énonciation-de Justin-que-Bruno-était-dans-la ville-mais -avant-que-nous-lui-soyons-arrivés-il-était-trop-tard allé."_ **(I mean, we-got-a-call-from-Justin-saying-that-Bruno-was-in-the-city-but-by-the-time-we-got-to-her-it-was-too-late gone.)**

There was a rush of static from the French end as he also let out a sigh. _"Aw, Zi, je suis si désolé. Y a-t-il quelque chose que je peux faire?"_ **(Aw, Zi, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?)**

"_Pas en particulier."_ **(Not particularly.)**

"_Antoine sait-il?"_ **(Does Antoine know?)**

"_Le non, et ne lui indiquent pas. Je le ferai savoir quand je suis prêt." _she replied, trying to keep from crying. It made her impossible to understand, especially in French. _"Ainsi pourquoi avez-vous appelé ? Coupure dans le cas?"_ **(No, and don't tell him. I'll let him know when I'm ready. / So why did you call? Break in the case?)**

Luc would have muttered in annoyance if he were not on the phone. It was just like her to change the subject like this. Her pent-up emotions would destroy her career, if not more, later. _"En fait, nous . ADN. Le seul problème est nous n'ont aucune allumette dans notre système, ainsi nous pensons le touriste. Pensez-vous que, si je vous envoyais les résultats, le M.E. à New York pourrait le regarder vers le haut ? C'est un grand projectile dans l'obscurité, mais nous avons pour commencer quelque part."_ **(Actually, we did. DNA. The only problem is we have no matches in our system, so we're thinking tourist. Do you think that, if I sent you the results, the M.E. in New York could look it up? It's a big shot in the dark, but we've got to start somewhere.)**

"_Je devine ainsi. Il ne blesserait pas pour essayer. Hé, pensez-vous que si j'assurais ma voiture à apporter ici, vous pourriez la conduire aux docks ? Louis vous laisserait dans le garage."_ (**I guess so. It wouldn't hurt to try. Hey, do you think that if I arranged for my car to be brought here, you could drive it to the docks? Louis would let you into the garage.)**

"_Zita, pourquoi faites-vous ceci?"_ **(Zita, why do you do this?)**

"_Ce qui? Voulez ma voiture?"_ **(Do what? Want my car?)**

"_Non, vous ne laissez pas vos émotions dehors. Vous les gardez mis en bouteille vers le haut intérieur et vous pour les couvrir vers le haut jusqu'à ce que vous éclatiez. Vous éclatez aux personnes concernées, mais la seule personne qui ne mérite pas d'obtenir le mal par lui devient blessée."_ **(No, you don't let your emotions out. You keep them bottled up inside and you cover them up until you explode. You explode at the right people, but the only person who doesn't deserve to get hurt by it _does _get hurt.)**

Zita could feel her temper beginning to rise. He had no right to be getting on her for this. Not now. _"Cette personne étant?"_ **(This person being?)**

"_Vous ! Regardez, vous êtes mon associé et je m'inquiète de vous et alors que je ne veux pas vous entendre ou voir pleurer, vous devez faire lui chaque une fois et un moment. Si n'importe qui rit de vous ou regarde vers le bas sur vous pour pleurer, c'est leur problème, pas vôtre."_ he answered, a bit harsher than intended. **(You! Look, you're my partner and I care about you and while I don't want to hear or see you cry, you need to do it every once and a while. If anyone laughs at you or looks down on you for crying, it's their problem, not yours.)**

That did it. Tears began welling up in her eyes and she no longer had the strength to stop them. _"Ce qui ? Maintenant vous êtes fou à moi?" _she attempted to coherently reply._ "I ont-ils été par assez pour vous ? Je veux juste mettre ceci derrière moi, pour ne pas parler de lui."_ **(What? Now you're mad at me/ Haven't I been through enough for you? I just want to put this behind me, not talk about it.)**

His voice softened. _"Non, non, Zita, je ne suis pas fou à vous et vous avez été par trop et je suis sûr que je ne sais pas la moitié d'elle. Je vous veux juste la laisse dehors avant que vous vous blessiez. Entretien à moi! Je ne veux pas vous rendre visite dans un certain asile aliéné!"_ **(No, no, Zita, I'm not mad at you and you've been through too much and I'm sure I don't know the half of it. I just want you to let it out before you hurt yourself. Talk to me! I don't want to visit you in some insane asylum!)**

On any other day, Zita might have laughed, but today she just blew her nose. _"Luc, je ne veux pas vider mes problèmes sur vous. Vous avez eu des issues avec la dépression avant et je ne veux pas vous rendre visite dans un hôpital ou une maison funèbre. La fois passée je vous ai dit au sujet de mes problèmes –"_ **(Luc, I don't want to dump my problems on you. You've had issues with depression before and I don't want to visit you in a hospital or funeral home. Last time I told you about my problems –)**

"_Je sais, je sais, je sais. Mais j'ai ce soin pris de maintenant, ainsi décharge loin, parce que je ne veux pas vous rendre visite dans une prison ou un asile aliéné, l'un ou l'autre. Rappelez-vous, je suis bon pour voir après ceux des excuses fausses, Zita Rachelle."_ **(I know, I know, I know. But I've got that taken care of now, so dump away, because I don't want to visit you in a prison or an insane asylum, either. Remember, I'm good at seeing past those fake excuses, Zita Rachelle.)**

"_Il est ce qui vous fait un bon détective."_ **(It's what makes you a good detective.)**

"_Asse'au sujet de moi. Parlez le ver!"_ he said in his Darth Vader voice. **(Enough about me. _Speak worm!_)**

She still could not laugh, but his attempt at getting her to do so had not made her cry harder, so he took it as a good sign. _"Allons, Zi. Hors de avec lui."_ **(Come on, Zi. Out with it.)**

"_Pourquoi ? Pourquoi soyez désormais soin ? Il a signé les papiers de divorce. Il n'est pas comme il n'y a pas un excédent massif des femmes or-creusantes en arrière en France et il n'est pas comme il l'aimait de toute façon. Pourquoi envoyez Bruno pour la tuer ? Il est son propre défaut stupide que la police est impliquée maintenant."_ **(Why? Why would be care anymore? He signed the divorce papers. It's not like there isn't a massive surplus of gold-digging women back in France and it's not like he loved her anyway. Why send Bruno to kill her? It's his own stupid fault that the police are involved now.)**

"_Zita, vous êtes un officier de la loi - rappelez-vous cela. Vous savez que vous auriez dit quelqu'un. Il pourrait avoir fait ceci à quelqu'un d'autre."_ **(Zita, you're an officer of the law – remember that. You know you would have told someone. He could have been doing this to someone else.)**

"_Cela ne l'a pas donné bien pour donner la commande pour que Bruno tue ma maman."_ **(That didn't give him any right to give the order for Bruno to kill my mom.)**

"_Vous avez raison, il pas , mais aucun humain, économiser pour dans la guerre, combattant pour votre pays et famille, ou dans art de l'auto-portrait-defense, a le droit de prendre la vie d'une autre personne. Regardez, j'ont pour aller, mes débuts de poste dans et le mauvais du trafic."_ **(You're right, it doesn't, but no human, save for in war, fighting for your country and family, or in self-defense, has the right to take another's life. Look, I've got to go, my shift starts in an hour and the traffic's bad.)**

"_Ah, droite. La différence de temps. Faites attention."_ **(Oh, right. The time difference. Be careful.)**

"_J'essayerai. Promesse vous direz Antoine bientôt?"_ **(I'll try. Promise you'll tell Antoine soon?)**

"_Ouais, je dirai Antoine. Envoyez-moi les résultats d'ADN bientôt. Je vous appellerai quand j'arrange pour la voiture."_ **(Yeah, I'll tell Antoine. Send me the DNA results soon. I'll call you when I arrange for the car.)**

"_Suffira. Au revoir, Zita."_ **(Will do. Goodbye, Zita.)**

"_Voyez-vous plus tard, Luc."_ **(See you later, Luc.)**

Zita hung up and leaned her head against the wall, letting tears she had not known were left to fall down her face. _You never miss a good thing until she's gone._ she thought.

* * *

Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, John listened in on the conversation. He could not understand the vast majority of it, but he picked up on a few words. Luc, DNA, Antoine, but it was the tone and the tearful voice that hit him most. Her partner was trying to get her to let go, like any good partner would. Fin had tried to convince him that it had not been his fault, which was Fin's own macho way of trying to comfort John and get him to let his emotions out, but John felt the need to be depressed and angry at himself for a while. Zita just seemed alone, but she would have stayed in the living room downstairs or left her door open if she had wanted to talk. He could not blame her for wanting to be alone. He had been the same way after his father killed himself. He had not left his room or spoken for days. 

But what was that she had said about DNA? Zita had told him something about the case she had been working on – had they caught a break? At least there was some good news somewhere.

John did not try to stop the tears as they fell. The best news he had heard in the past month was all for naught. It seemed Pierre had had it in for him, just like Bowan had said about her and John regarding the event that took place seventeen – almost eighteen – years ago. If he had only thought, _really_ thought, harder about proposing, he would not have done it until after Pierre and Bruno were safely behind bars for life – if not dead.

_Too bad hindsight's twenty-freakin'-twenty._ he told himself.

It felt good to cry – like a catharsis for the mind. He had not cried like this in, literally, years. Just unashamedly letting the tears go. Like Zita, he had always felt tears to be a weakness, something to hide and be ashamed of. But he had gone past hiding it from the rest of the world and went to hiding it from himself as well. He used to ignore the wishy-washy statements about it being "okay to cry" and "crying's not a show of weakness, it's a show of humanity" load of crap, but now, he realized why they all said it. Before Bowan returned he had been spending so much time not showing emotion that he was seen as something an android-like figure and he was beginning to feel like one, too, but after Bowan and Zita found him, his humanity seemed to return. But crying was something he had not had to experience until now, and while it hurt, its release comforted him as well.

Bowan had always told John back in Baltimore to 'be human.' Maybe it was her final achievement.


	8. Chapter 7

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

A/N: I'd like to thank my one reviewer, Munchkin25, for humoring me and reviewing. Thanks for the feedback!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Sunday, December 29, 2003

2:00 P.M.

Christmas had come and gone without much celebration from the 1-6. The tragedy had affected them as much as if they had lost one of their own. John and Zita began coming back to the station two days after the first night they had spent in the townhouse, hiding their emotions by working late into the morning, sometimes not even going home at all. Fin grew less and less worried about Zita's grief pattern after a long series of e-mails with Justin, who had, along with sending updates on the getaway car's location (which had yet to match up with the previously-assumed location of the chateau), explained that her behavior would not turn self-destructive and was more or less normal for Zita and assured him that she would be back to an almost-normal state soon. However, the detectives could not shake their concern for the sleep-deprived Munch. Zita sometimes managed to fall asleep at her desk, but John had never looked so old and tired. Fin could only hope that his and the captain's lectures would sink in soon. He did not know how John could react if Cragen had to take him off the case and make him and Zita go home. This job was his sanity.

Things were moving at a mediocre pace that day. The temperature was more than inclined to hover around the twelve below zero range, so crime had slowed down. The paperwork, however, did not, so the detectives were left with that for something to do. Not that they minded. The outside air might have frozen the blood in your veins, but the squadroom was sixty-seven degrees. Casey, whose office wing had lost its heating due to being serviced by "engineers" who had, apparently, graduated from the Monty Python's School of Heating and Cooling Systems, had joined the squad at their office, sharing Zita's desk, which was, by far, the least cluttered.

But days never really seemed to stay uneventful at the precinct and this day would prove no different; for soon after Zita had fallen asleep, her head on her hand, propped up by her elbow, her phone rang.

"Tell me you woke me up for a reason, Justin."

"G'mornin' sunshine!"

"Very cute, Justin. Gerron with it."

"Who spit in your coffee?"

"I haven't had any. Trying to kick the caffeine addiction."

Justin laughed. "Ha ha! Good luck with that. Call me when the twelve steps start boring you."

"Justin, I was sleeping and you woke me up to laugh at me. Now, spit it out or do something useful."

"Sorry, just trying to cheer you up in my own annoying way." he said, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Guess what?"

"I don' wanna."

"Come on, just guess."

"You got rid of your Bill Nye the Science Guy DVDs?"

He took a deep breath. "No. I'll ignore your irritability because I bring news this good. We've got him!" he said, finishing in a sing-song voice.

Zita sat bolt upright in her chair, a familiar electric buzz zipping around her head. She was in break-in-case mode. "He got back to the chateau?"

"Finally. At a guess, he stayed at different hotels to throw us off if we had a tracker on him. Once he was confident that we weren't on his trail, he went back to the chateau. At least his car did, I can't say for sure that _he's_ there."

"I'll take those odds. I need those coordinates." she said, waking up her computer and logging into the Interpol's intranet.

"I already sent them, but when I didn't get an instant message or a phone call back, I thought I'd call. 'Course, you were too busy snoring to notice – or thank me, for that matter."

Zita resisted the urge to call him something similar to an intelligent donkey. "You're on this case, Justin; you're doing your job. Since this will, no doubt, wind up as an international case eventually, I'm sure it will be discovered that you were involved and you will, no doubt be compensated for talents used. That's the gratitude of law enforcement. We get yelled at more often than we get thanked."

"You're welcome."

"Do you think we could get surveillance footage on the chateau? I need to know their schedule – comings, goings, etc. I'm not asking you to pull a satellite out of orbit, just a monitoring system."

"Probably not from here. Try hacking into his computer and security system from there. I'm sure he's got a copy of his calendar in his computer – probably a journal, too – and you could get all access into the security cameras if you break into the system."

"I thought you could hack any computer from anywhere. Somehow I doubt any judge will smile on me playing computer-hacker to gather any further evidence against either of them." she grumbled, "You're Interpol – I haven't heard yet of a judge questioning anything from you guys, and I graduated from Harvard Law – I'd'a known about it."

"Well, you've worked with Interpol before. And you're an agent in the French Secret Service. That's got to count for something."

"Are you trying to tell me to use my authority for evil? At least in the sense of breaking the rules to get what I want?" she asked, her keyboard already in action.

"That's my girl! When you've got him, call me and I'll hack your computer through the intranet. You've got enough on your plate. Was Luc able to make it to the funeral?"

"No, Antoine wouldn't let him."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't know about my mom. I asked Luc not to tell him. Look, I've gotta go. I'll call you when I connect."

"You know, I wish you'd stop dropping things like that. It'll harm your psyche."

"Justin," she warned.

"I know, I know, 'quit talking to Luc.' I'lltalktoyoulater,bye." – Click –

"Bye." Zita said, shutting the phone, a slow smile spreading across her face, like one would on the face of a shark that had spotted a bare behind. Hit and sunk.

"Why does that smile fill me with both confidence _and_ dread?" Elliot asked, leaning back in his chair and cracking the tendons in his neck.

"Oh, the dread's not for you to feel, Elliot." Zita said. "Bruno got home."

"But we have to get them both at the same time, don't we?" Olivia asked. "Would Pierre still be at the chateau?"

"Definitely." Zita replied, "Pierre's tall, but he's not a big man and couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. He rarely leaves for anywhere without Bruno. He has too many enemies for that."

Eager for something to do, Fin stood and rummaged in his top desk drawer for his car keys. "Then let's pick him up. Get the Dramamine, Munch."

"Wait," Casey said, "we may have them on evidence, but you want to get them together, and Pierre's a foreign diplomat. We'll need an extradition from the French government if we want to put him on trial – regardless of citizenship."

Fin sat back down, but brightened up a bit when Zita pulled her cell phone out again and put it on speaker. "Oh," she quipped, "is that all?"

The French end crackled into life after a few rings. "Bonjour?"

"Bonjour, Papa Antoine. Do you mind if we speak English? I have some mono-lingual friends listening in."

Munch snorted. "I'll have you know, young lady, that I speak _three_ languages."

Everyone around the desk glared at Munch. "Shhh!"

"Ah, you again, Zita!" Antoine said through the speakers in his thick French accent, "Lizzette has been asking about you. How have you been?"

"Not too bad under the circumstances." Zita lied, "Listen, you know how I told you not to say anything about what was going on to anyone because it would only cause more problems for my mother and me in the long run?"

"Yes, why?"

"And how you said once that you had a few friends in Parliament who would be able to help me out with this?"

"Yes, and they are still willing to do so. Laffayette asked about you yesterday."

"Well, it's time to speak up – papers, TV news, radio, tabloids, anyone who'll report it. And we need an extradition from the government if we want to press charges here because of diplomatic immunity. It's our only shot at Pierre and now we have all the more reason to want him facing the death penalty."

"Would it be appropriate if I asked why?"

Zita's face met the question with a pained expression. Fin and Munch laid a hand on each of her shoulders simultaneously, almost making her want to laugh. They talked tough, but they were teddy bears underneath. "Let's just say an eye for an eye, blood for blood. I'll tell you later – you deserve to know."

Antoine wisely dropped the subject. "I'll get the boys on an extradition as soon as I can. Analeise is already getting ahold of the media. Shall she get in touch with the internet news as well?"

"Anyone she can. Pierre can't do anything to me or my mother anymore, so it's a good time for retribution. Tell Ludont that I need that extradition yesterday if he can get one."

"I'll deliver it myself. I was planning on taking Lizzette to New York anyway. She wants to see the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and my wife has racked up enough credit card miles, heaven knows. I'll meet you at the SVU precinct by Friday."

"You know where it is?"

"I have an idea – I've been there before. If I can't find it, I'm sure I can get directions. I don't know how I'll be able to tell the rest of the squad about what's been going on, though. You know they miss you, right? You're their little sister. Pierre's glad he's not in France right now, or they'd already have his blood. His and Bruno's."

"Yes, and I miss them, too, and I'd like to see what a squad of our detectives would do to Pierre, but I'm afraid I'll have to do with hearing about how angry they are in a few hours when I won't be able to do anything else for them all calling me."

"I'll try to keep them busy."

"I appreciate it. See you soon."

"I'll hold you to that. Friday, if not sooner."

"Friday, if not sooner."

"À tout à l'heur."

"À tout à l'heur."

"Who is Papa Antoine?" Casey asked as Zita shut her phone.

"He's my captain in the French police and my best friend's dad. I'd never call him Papa on duty, but I've always called him that away from work, ever since Lizzette and I were kids."

"And he can get us an extradition?"

"No, but his friends in Parliament can."

* * *

Wednesday, December 31, 2003

1:20 P.M.

SVU Squadroom

* * *

Zita was working on her French case at her desk, trying to avoid looking at the crime scene photos any more than she had to. Even after eleven days, she still could not see the bloodbath she had managed to numb herself to months before without seeing the image of her mother's body lying amid the bloody, rumpled sheets. The nightmares, when she got a deep-enough sleep to receive them, were bad enough without having to focus on the murder scene of her case.

She sighed and looked at her watch. It felt like she had been there since four that morning, even though Fin had talked John and her into coming to work late and she had only been there for three hours. She could hear John snoring softly behind a file and Fin typing away at his computer. Elliot and Olivia had gotten back from picking up lunch an hour before and were both going over case files quietly at their desks, speaking softly, having noticed that John was sleeping for the first time in three days.

Unfortunately, Luc Brenoille did not know any of this when he burst through the precinct's door.

"Zita!"

Zita's head, along with all the other heads in the room, shot up from the doze she had been falling into. "Luc! _Que faites-vous ici?_" **(What are you doing here?)**

Luc did not bother answering. He just ran over and wrapped her in a bear hug. "_Êtes-vous tout droit?_" **(Are you all right?)**

"_Oui, j'ai tout raison. Antoine vous a-t-il envoyé?_"** (Yes, I'm all right. Did Antoine send you?)**

"_Ouais, et l'extradition._" he said, pulling out a thin stack of paper, "_Et votre voiture._" **(Yeah, and the extradition. / And your car.)** he said, jingling a set car keys.

To their chagrin, it had taken the two French detectives this long to realize that the entire squadroom had gone silent and sat or stood watching them.

Zita took the keys and blushed slightly at the sudden attention from the squadroom. "Uh, hello, everyone," she began, "This is Luc Brenoille, my partner in the Paris police department and he _does_ speak English."

The unis and other detectives took the hint and went on with their business, but Don, Olivia, and Elliot drifted over to greet the newcomer, who was shaking hands with Fin and John.

After formal introductions were made, Cragen glanced at the papers in Zita's hands. "Are these what I think they are?"

"What do you think they are?" she asked, handing him the packet.

"This means we can pick 'em up. Now you can pack the Dramamine." Fin said, tossing the file he had been going through on the stack in front of Munch and reaching for his keys.

"Unfortunately, no." Luc said, retrieving the extradition from Cragen, "I was reading through this on my flight, and it seems that Parliament has made an . . . ah . . . adjustment to the original request made by our lawyer. It says 'at the arrest of the suspect, at least eight officers from the Paris police department must be present to witness the arrest and accompany them to the facility in which they will be held, where they will assist in the guarding and questioning of Monsieur Plouvin and Monsieur Arnoulle.' We need six more French officers in order to make the arrest."

_Figures_. Cragen thought. "And when might they get here?"

"Antoine and the rest should be here no later than tomorrow noon. The captain sent me on ahead of them, just in case anything needed to be done with the extradition before the arrest was made." Luc answered, sensing the displeasure in the captain's voice, "Don't worry, sir, Jérémie Antoine is known throughout France as one who knows how to share power. He says he has no interest in taking over your investigation."

Cragen remained completely unconvinced, but did his best to hide it. "Well, I'll go call Casey about – "

"Who's '66 Corvette's outside?" said lawyer asked, striding into the squadroom.

All eyes save Zita's went to Luc. "How can you afford a car like that on a cop's salary?" Elliot asked him as a uni, who had overheard Casey's question, snuck outside for a peek.

"Oh, she's not mine." Luc replied, holding up his hands defensively, "She's Zita's."

Now all eyes went to Zita.

"Don't give me that look, you guys. When I bought it, it was a piece of junk. I paid a hundred and fifty euros for it. It's not my fault we have an awesome personal mechanic back in Paris."

"You have a _1966 Corvette_ and you never _told_ me?" Elliot nearly gasped as he and Fin dashed out to inspect the new vehicle on the premises.

"Was I supposed to report on the make and model of my car during our introduction?" Zita asked, but Elliot was no longer withing hearing range. Not that he would have wasted time answering when there was a vintage car for the looking-at. "Maybe it wouldn't be wise to mention that I now also have a Bentley Continental convertible, too." she whispered to Luc.

"Maybe it's an American thing."

"No one else did that. Maybe it's just him."

"What do you think he'd say if he knew you learned how to drive in a Ferrari and a Porche?"

John, who had been listening in on their conversation, nearly had a stroke. "You learned to drive in a _what _and a _what_?"

"A Suburban and a Ford Taurus?" she asked, hoping John would not freak out any more than he already had. It was very seldom that vintage or state-of-the-art sports cars were known for their safety features, and he was over-protective without her being behind the wheel of one.

Everyone listening laughed at Munch's unconvinced expression.

"Are you turning into a father, John, or is it just me?" Olivia asked, treating her co-worker to a friendly punch to the shoulder.

"Hey, is your stuff still in the car?" Zita asked, leading Luc towards the door.

"Yeah, I haven't checked into the hotel, yet."

"Forget the hotel." Zita said as Luc held the doors open. "We've got four guest rooms at home. I'm sure John wouldn't mind you staying with us."

Cragen and Casey went into his office to discuss another case and Olivia followed Luc and Zita to see the car and drag her partners away from it, but John stayed at his desk.

_Are you turning into a father, John, or is it just me?_

The question kept repeating itself in his head. Was it true? He was getting protective, they were living under the same roof, he was even starting to forget to correct people when they referred to her as his daughter or to him as her dad. John had immediately connected with this girl on a level he had never experienced before with a minor. He felt her pain, saw her fears – even when no one else could. She got frustrated with him when he proved that he knew her emotions, but she seemed grateful for it when he offered a shoulder. From what Elliot told him about his kids, it seemed that the only thing missing was a "John Munch" on the birth certificate.

Maybe it was not just Olivia.

* * *

SVU Squadroom

6:00 P.M.

* * *

John had been very hesitant to let Zita go without him or Fin, but Fin had finally managed (via sharp kicks to John's shins from under the desks) to let her leave to pick up food with Luc.

"He's her partner, John. He won't let anything happen to her."

John's only response was to snort and stare at the door Luc and Zita had disappeared through fifteen minutes before.

"What? You don't trust him?"

"Not as much as myself or you."

"Look, John, this whole ordeal isn't going to be made any easier if we can't work with these guys. If Zita trusts them, we have no reason not to. She's a big girl. She's a cop and, whether you like it or not, a trained special agent. She can more than handle herself."

For once, John had nothing to say. No witty retort, no smart remark. There was simply nothing to say. Fin was right. He had known her for less than six months, but he already felt like his little girl had grown up too fast. Wait. _His little girl_? He might as well buy a recliner and break out a copy of Bill Cosby's _Fatherhood_.

"Look, I know you're only trying to protect her, and so am I." Fin continued, noticing the look on Munch's face and realizing that his voice had probably been too harsh. "It's only natural, but you've got to let her go."

"I guess I'm turning into Elliot. Bringing home cases."

"And you have reason to, with all that's happened, but she's worked hart to earn your trust and I give her major props for that. You don't trust women and I think she's changing that. She's an incredibly responsible girl – let her prove it."

John chuckled a little, shaking his head, relaxing now that he could hear Zita's voice in the hallway outside. "Thanks, Doctor Phil, I'll stow that away for a rainy day."

"Actually, what he said wasn't far off the mark." George Huang said from where he sat, going through a case file and trying to keep Reggie, who had taken an immediate liking to him, from eating his shoelaces.

"Off what mark?" Zita, whose arms were full of take-out boxes, asked, walking backwards through the door so Luc, whose arms were busy carrying drinks, could get in.

"Nothin'" John replied, taking some of the boxes from her. "Olivia and Elliot are in interrogation and Casey and the captain are observing. Just put their food on their desks."

When Zita and Luc moved out of earshot to make their deliveries, Fin nudged John. "Call me Doctor Phil again and I'm goin' to have to smack you."

"Would you prefer Oprah?"

Fin just scowled and George tried to work his tongue, which he had almost swallowed following John's latest remark, back into place.

* * *

9:30 P.M.

* * *

"All right, I'm going to the roof. I need a break from all this."

Luc looked up from his laptop. He had brought the DNA evidence from their French case rather than risk it getting lost in shipping, but, as it was New Year's Eve, Melinda Warner, the M.E., had the day off. Luc was not about to attempt analyzing the DNA without a trained professional present, so he and Zita were left to work their case without their newest lead. They had been sitting in an interrogation room for most of the afternoon – Luc could understand why a break would be needed, especially with what they had been working with. "Okay."

Zita left him to continue his work, slipping past Huang and the four detectives in the squadroom and making her way up to the roof.

The cold air felt good on her face after the many hours indoors. She had forgotten her coat, but did not mind – the chill woke her up and gave her something else to think about. She had really wanted to avoid the murder part of the case for a little while longer, especially now that the case with her as a victim had started really moving forward, but Luc had been working their case on his own for the most part while she had been in New York and had been so excited to actually work on it with her, without the use of a phone or e-mail, that she had not felt able to refuse him. Nevertheless, she could only stare at a murder scene for so long after . . . she shook her head. She did not want to think about that now. It was New Year's Eve, for cryin' out loud. It was supposed to be a happy time with parties and fake wine (at least for her). She sighed. This looked to be her year of change.

Back when she lived on the outskirts of Paris, she used to come out onto the roof all the time to look at the stars when she had had a bad day (which was more than often). In New York City, she would not see the stars for the smog cloud that hid the sky from view, so she focused her attention on the city itself. The lights of a thousand apartments and buildings, the noise from a million car horns now that traffic had all but stopped thanks to the glowing celebration taking place in Times Square, located somewhere in the midst of it all.

Bowan used to love this. She would not always be able to watch it live via satellite, but she always made sure Dick Clark was TiVoed. This year was no different. As soon as she had the TiVo installed, Bowan had set it to record that year's crystal-ball-dropping-broohaha. Zita smiled. Bowan would never have simply watched it from the couch. She was in New York City, by gosh, and she would have dragged her cold-and-snow-hating daughter and fiancé down to see it in person. _Funny_, she thought to herself as she watched Reggie, whom had followed her, chase snowflakes, _I don't mind the cold anymore._

* * *

SVU Squadroom

* * *

John had forced himself to admit it. He was paranoid about Zita. The cases she was dealing with – especially her own – bothered her. He could see it in her eyes when she stared off into space, presumably deep in thought. He had seen cops and victims snap over less. He shuddered slightly at the memory of a case he had worked back in Baltimore. A vengeful ex-convict had stepped in and shot a cop's son, killing him instantly. The cop had not even found the body himself, as Zita had seen the body of her mother, only answered the phone when his wife called to tell him what happened. While John knew it had to be unbearable for a father to lose his son, it did not help matters any for his wife and ten-year-old daughter to find that their husband and father ate his gun.

John shook his head. Zita, in her right mind, would never do such a thing, but if she had snapped and managed to hide it from the rest of them . . . who knew?

He sighed. "I'm gonna go check on the kids. It'll be a big day tomorrow; we should probably be getting home soon."

"And with a friend there, she won't be going to bed for a while after you get home. You probably should've left already if you want her asleep by midnight." Elliot said, imparting some of his fatherly wisdom upon John, who had not considered it.

John glared back at him. "Believe me, she's going straight to bed when we get home and Zita and Luc are sleeping on opposite sides of the house and on different floors."

Fin laid his head down on his hand as John disappeared from the room. "I suppose I shouldn't mention that they both have cell phones and laptops with wireless internet access. Keeping them separated isn't going to make her go to sleep."

"Nah, he'll figure it out on his own."

John's heart skipped a beat when he looked through the window in the observation room. Zita was not there.

He yanked the door open. "Where's Zita?"

Luc's head snapped up fast enough to almost cause whiplash. "She said she needed a break from this. Said she was going to the roof." he replied, his hands raised in a sign of submission to the angry-looking man that just scared the bejabbers out of him.

Munch's mind did not want the thought to pop into his head, but "suicide" was the first thing that came to it. He darted from the room at a speed that belied his age, running through the back of the squadroom and up the stairs to the roof.

The rapid movement from John at an hour as past-noon as that, needless to say, got the other detectives' attention and they dashed up also after Luc came running after John. Cragen, having been awakened from his slight doze by the commotion, brought up the rear, though a bit slower than the others. He was not used to all the exercise.

The scene that greeted John when he arrived on the roof several seconds ahead of the others almost stopped his racing heart altogether.

Reggie was there, still hunting snowflakes, but Zita was sitting _on_ the railing, her feet dangling in the thin air between her and the suddenly-ominous concrete below.

John forced himself to stay calm, or at least to sound calm. He knew that if he surprised her, she could fall.

"Zita, Zita, don't do this." he pleaded, trying to keep the shaking from his voice as the rest of the merry parade reached the roof. "Come back down from there. We can help you. It's not worth this."

"_Mon Dieu,_" Luc whispered under his breath, "_Je devrais avoir ne laisse jamais son congé_." **(I should have never let her leave.)**

They all watched with bated breath as Zita turned slowly back around, sighing. "I appreciate the sentiment, everyone, but I'm not suicidal." she said, hopping down and picking up Reggie, whose small body, while still quite active in his quest for snowflakes, was shivering violently.

Luc pushed his way past the rest of the gathering and grabbed Zita around her shoulders and lifted her from the ground, causing her to lose the vast majority of the air in her lungs and Reggie to squeak and try to bite him. "Don't you ever, _ever_, **_ever_**, do that to me again! Do you understand me? That wasn't even _close_ to being funny!"

With the small amount of air she had left, she gasped, "I wasn't trying to be. Put me down."

"You are _never _leaving my sight again!" he told her, setting her back down.

"I don't know how that's going to work, seeing as how my vette has only two seats and I've got to bring John home, too." she told him as they followed Huang, Elliot, Olivia, and Cragen, who, seeing that the crisis, which was not really a crisis at all, was resolved, began to head back down the steps.

As she drew within reaching distance of John, whose heart had finally worked itself back into his chest and begun beating normally, he grabbed ahold of her and wrapped her in a hug. Luc would have waited, but Reggie growled at him, reminding the detective of their now-strained relationship since he had inadvertently tried to strangle him, and assuring him that their relationship would not mend until they were apart for a while. Luc decided that Zita was safe enough with John and Fin, who stood waiting for John and Zita to head back inside, and went back to the warmth of the building.

When John finally released her, he was crying. "What he said goes double for me. Do you know how much you scared me?"

Zita wiped John's tears away with her thumbs and managed a pouty, puppy-dog face. "I'm sorry, Munchkin. I won't do it again."

John tried not to smile. "I'm serious."

"So am I." she said, dropping the faces. "Look, I just came up here to think. I used to sit on the railing back in Paris all the time; I was okay, but I won't do it again."

He pulled her into another hug. "Promise?"

"Do I get chocolate?"

"All the chocolate you want."

"Promise." she answered, "Now let's get you back inside before you freeze."

Fin followed them down the stairs, punching a number into his cellphone. He was not an emotional man by any means, but it was scenes like that that made him want to talk to his son.


	9. Chapter 8

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

**Chapter 8

* * *

**

Zita's Bedroom

January 1, 2004

8:20 A.M

* * *

"_Réveillez-vous, sleepyhead_." **(Wake up, sleepyhead.)**

Someone was whispering in French.

Zita moaned. It was, in no way, time to get up yet. She refused to believe it. But who was that shaking her shoulder? Her mother? Could this all have possibly been a long dream? Her heart leapt at the thought, then sank just as quickly as she heard the sounds of New York City outside her closed window. Back in Paris the walls, interior and exterior, were soundproof. She was in America and it had all happened. But whose voice was that? Too perky at this hour to be Luc and too high-pitched and French to ever be John's or Etienne's. Xavier was still recovering from his bullet wound in the room at the Ritz until all of his stuff could be moved to the townhouse, so it was not him, either. No, it was a _girl's_ voice. _Olivia? Casey?_ Neither option sounded likely at all.

Whoever the voice belonged to continued to shake her arm. Zita tried to push her away, muttering something incomprehensible.

"_Allons, Zita, se réveillent!_" **(Come on, Zita, wake up!) **the voice said again, a bit louder this time.

Zita was now thoroughly annoyed. She opened her one eye and snapped in English, "Who are you and what do you wANT !"

She screamed the last part of the last word in surprise as the face belonging to the voice suddenly loomed very close to her own face.

Zita sat straight up as her best friend, Antoine's daughter, Lizzette, fell back on the bed. "Happy New Year!" she girl cried in a thick French accent, laughing at the look on Zita's face.

"Oh, you are the _devil_!" Zita yelled, laughing and lunging forward, sending both herself and Lizzette tumbling from the bed, landing on the floor in a pile of pillows and blankets.

Reggie, feeling that it might be dangerous to remain in a room with two tumbling girls, made a quick exit and began the arduous task (for his short, little legs) of going downstairs.

"What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to be here until noon!" Zita said, throwing a pillow at her friend.

"Me'n'Dad took an earlier flight. We've been here in New York since three this morning, but we didn't leave the airport until seven-thirty. It takes American airports _forever_ to get cars unloaded!"

"You brought the Bentley?" Zita asked, jumping up and running to the window to see if it was parked outside.

"Oh my _gosh_, that is such an awesome car!" Lizzette gasped, falling back onto the bed.

Zita nodded, a look of sadness coming over her face. "Yeah, it was my mom's. She didn't drive much, so she more or less gave it to me."

"Hey," Lizzette said, standing up and walking over to where Zita was standing, "I'm sorry about your mom. She didn't deserve what happened to her."

Zita nodded. "Don't be sorry. It wasn't your fault." she said, anxious to change the subject. "So you just walked up to the door and introduced yourselves and John just let you in?"

Lizzette shook her head. "We called the precinct around seven to tell your American captain we were here. He gave us your address and Dad called Luc to tell him we were coming. I guess John was up and Luc told him. They're all down there drinking coffee."

Zita ran a brush through her long brown hair. "Let's go join them. I need caffeine."

* * *

SVU Squadroom

2:00 P.M.

* * *

The Antoine's, Munch, Luc, and Zita arrived at the stationhouse minutes before three taxies pulled up, carrying the necessary five other French officers. 

Cragen wasted no time in pulling Antoine into his office for a briefing and a laying-down-of-law, which was just as well, because the reunion between the French officers, Luc, and Zita took, in comparison to American greetings, a ridiculously long time before Luc and Zita actually got around to introducing the newcomers to everyone else.

To the American captain's surprise, Luc had been right. Antoine understood and agreed that this, as it was caught by the American police, was an American case. Cragen knew the Frenchman knew the Plouvin family situation better and had just as much incentive, if not more, as he did. Why would he do something to jeopardize the case? As long as the French officers got along with his detectives, Cragen had a feeling that this would not be as bad as he had previously thought. Judging from the glimpse he caught of the eleven detectives through his office window, this case could be wrapped up very soon.

"My detectives will need transport to the chateau when we leave." Antoine said, "Getting one car on and off a plane took long enough. We'd've been all day with it if we'd brought squadcars."

"That won't be a problem." Cragen answered, leaning back in his chair. "You know, Zita's a great detective, especially for someone her age. She even solved a few of our cold cases. She says you taught her."

"Everything she didn't already know. Detective work is in her blood. Her mother taught her observation, I just sharpened the skills she had – but it's nice to be credited."

Zita tapped on the door, poking her head in. "Um, Fin's getting anxious and the jingling of his keys is making it very difficult to remain polite."

Cragen stood, nodding. "Are your officers ready, Captain?"

"As soon as your's are." the Frenchman replied, also standing, "And please, call me Antoine."

Cragen smiled, gesturing towards the door. "After you, Antione."

* * *

Outside the Gates of the Chateau Plouvin

8:30 P.M.

* * *

"Justin, are you sending that loop?" 

"Look, this is not easy, Zi! Give the computer a minute!"

Zita crouched in the shrubbery outside the chateau's gates with ear and mic pieces attached to both John's and her cell phones and her laptop, wary of the many cameras that could be pointed her way. The police were waiting down the road, out of the cameras' range.

"Zita, what's going on up there?" Fin asked, impatiently.

Zita twisted the mic attached to John's phone back to her mouth. "He's working on it. His computer's slow."

"Is not!" came the indignant reply from Justin's end.

"Shut up, Justin."

"Well, tell him to speed it up." Fin said, "The longer we wait – "

"I know, I know, I _know_! If I could do it myself, I would!" she hissed back as she ducked out of the sight of a camera turning her way.

"No need to get angry." John told her, grabbing the phone away from Fin, leaning back against the wall of the armored truck that they were planning on using for an observation point and a prisoner-containment vehicle, as it has a blocked-off section that resembled the back of a squadcar.

"I'm not angry. It's just difficult to hide from cameras and other security stuff while carrying on conversations with two phones at the same time. Wait a second." Zita replied hotly, pushing the John-mic away and pulling the Zita-mic back up to her mouth. "What now, Justin?" she snapped.

"What side of the bed did you get up on this morning?"

"Get on with it, Mianovich."

Her words is not threaten, but her voice certainly did. Justin decided that it would be wise to 'get on with it, Mianovich.'

"I've got the indoor and outdoor cameras. Take a look at I-36."

Zita turned to her laptop, clicking on the small, grainy thumbnail link, bringing the camera's footage to full-screen view.

The picture was crystal clear now and what she saw both angered and sickened her at the same time.

"Send the loop of all the cameras except that one. I don't want any monitors noticing any vanishing acts. Cut the sensors in the lawn. Shut down the primary and secondary alarm systems. I don't want anyone knowing we're here until they hear the pounding on the doors." she ordered, sending the footage she was looking at, the real, un-looped footage, to the computers in the armored van.

"Ten-four, Houston."

Under normal circumstances, Zita would have replied with something to the ring of 'Call me Houston again and I'll deport you to NASA,' but tonight, right now, she was too worried. She pulled the John-mic back to her mouth. "Check out camera I-36. Orders?"

Cragen and Antoine squinted at the screen. Two people. Man and woman – no, _girl_. The girl fell to the floor for what appeared to be the latest time of many. Antoine sighed, shaking his head, and Cragen took Fin's phone from John. "Is that the man I think it is?"

Zita's reply came back quiet and ashamedly. "Meet my legal father, Pierre A. Plouvin."

Five minutes after Justin gave the signal, there was an officer at every exit, banging on the doors, shouting, "Police! Open up! You're surrounded!"

* * *

Chateau de Plouvin

9:00 P.M.

* * *

"Pierre Plouvin, you are under arrest for the multiple rapes of Zita and Bowan Plouvin and two counts of conspiracy to commit murder against Xavier Cousteau and Bowan Plouvin, and one count of assault. You have the right to remain silent, if you give up that right anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford one, one will be provided for you." 

"Bruno Arnoulle, you are under arrest for the multiple rapes of Zita and Bowan Plouvin, one count of attempted murder of Xavier Cousteau and one count of murder in the first degree of Bowan Plouvin. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford one, one will be provided for you."

As Cragen and Elliot (along with many other uniformed officers – Bruno was a big guy) frogmarched Pierre and Bruno through the large double doors of the chateau's foyer, Pierre screamed at Zita, who was lounging against the doorway leading from the foyer to the hall with Munch and Fin nearby.

"You filthy whelp!" he screeched, "You will pay for this! You and all who helped you! What you have suffered has been _nothing_ compared to what I will do to you and the rest of these gutless –"

"You have the right to remain silent, Pierre. I suggest you invoke it." Zita spat with just a little too much glee in her voice and smile, only serving to further Pierre's fury. Elliot and Luc dragged him through the doors, "accidently" knocking his head into the doorway, ignoring the vicious profanities being spouted by the angry Frenchman.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?" John asked, nudging her shoulder.

"Way too much, all things considered."

Zita jumped as a woman in a maid's uniform grabbed her hand and began speaking urgently in rapid Spanish. The American detectives recognized her as the woman Zita had told to look after the maid whose beating had been interrupted by their arrival.

The two were both going on in Spanish now, though Zita seemed confused and appeared to be trying to get the older woman to calm down. The maid began trying to pull Zita away and John grabbed her arm. "Zita, what's wrong? What is she going on about?"

Zita did not really answer his question per se. "See if you can get a message to that bus. We need it here yesterday." she told him.

John pulled out his cell phone, which Zita had returned to him, punching in 9-1-1 as Fin followed to two women up the stairs.

As they neared the door to the room where Zita had left the beaten maid, another maid dashed from the room, grabbing Zita's free hand and helping the Mexican woman drag her into the room, her big, brown eyes wide in fear. "Miss Zita, come quick, she's getting worse!"

The girl on the floor had begun seizing and blood trickled from a gash on her head that had managed to go unnoticed before, staining her blonde hair and the white carpet beneath.

"I know I shouldn't have let her," the second maid began to sob, "but she said she was all right. She wanted to get up and as soon as I let go of her arm, she blacked out and hit her head on the window sill when she fell. I didn't know she'd fall! I shouldn't have let go of her. _Urgh_, her head made this terrible sound when it hit the window – I thought she was dead!"

The girl began sobbing in earnest now, covering her tears with her hands and Zita's shoulder, which she was crying into. Zita pulled her into a hug as Fin left to check on the bus. Zita shook her head. Ani, the girl sobbing, should not have been there. The thirteen-year-old should have been back with her friends and family in Africa, far away from the misery of the Plouvin household. But that was all thanks to Pierre again, whose ancestors had owned slaves since the trade had started. Repulsed by the fact, both Bowan and Zita had paid the now-maids under the table. If Ani had not left the Sudan and come in contact with the Plouvin women, she would have been paid much less, if at all, but at least she would have been relatively happy.

Zita tipped Ani's face up to look into her own, wiping her tears away. "Ani, listen to me; this was not your fault. Y-"

"But I let her fall! If I hadn't let her get up, she wouldn't be the way she is now!" the young girl sniffed and jumped in surprise as the paramedics burst into the room.

Zita led the girl from the room and through the crowd of chateau staff surrounding the doorway. "And if Pierre hadn't beat her, she wouldn't have been on the floor, wanting to get up in the first place. He's at fault, not you."

Ani did not seem completely convinced, but she did not argue. It made her feel better. She looked shyly up at the older girl. "I'm sorry about what's been happening to you."

Zita was confused. "What do you mean, Ani? What's been happening to me?"

"When I saw the news, I knew what I thought had been going on was true. The Parliament has ousted Monsieur Plouvin because of what he and Monsieur Arnoulle have been doing to you and your mother. The news said that Monsieur Arnoulle killed your mother, too. Gabrielle took it the hardest. Monsieur Plouvin saw her watching the news and got angry at her. That's why he beat her."

Zita nodded and squeezed the girl's shoulder, suddenly feeling very guilty. If she had not contacted the media, Gabrielle would not have been hurt. "It's all over, now, Ani. Let's go outside; it's getting crowded in here."

* * *

SVU Squadroom

January 10, 2004

11:30 A.M.

* * *

After a tense day and two nights in a hospital in Rome, New York, Gabrielle Renoulle was deemed stable enough to be transported to Manhattan. As Ani had begged to stay with Zita, who had chosen to stay there with Gabrielle, and as John had refused to allow them to stay in Rome without him, he, Zita, and Ani stayed until Gabrielle was transported. Unfortunately for Ani, a judge decided soon after their arrival back in the city that she could not stay with the two detectives during an open investigation, but Zita could pick her up four days a week so she could be with her as long as Ani was back at the group home by seven in the evening. 

Upon her arrival back in Manhattan, Cragen gave Zita the opportunity to interrogate the two "suspects," as they were technically referred to, in their cells at Rikers (Casey had had no difficulty convincing a judge to grant remand), but she had declined. She did not want to speak with either of them and was content to watch them squirm as the teams of French and American detectives grilled them while their lawyers, whom Pierre had flown over on private jets, sat by, unable or unwilling to adequately defend their clients. If there was anything to be said in the men's defense, the attorneys were saving it for the courtroom.

On the days that Ani had to stay at the group home, Zita and Luc continued to work on their French case. Now that Melinda was back in her lab, the two detectives wasted no time in reserving a slot in her schedule.

"You know how much of a stretch this is, don't you?" she asked when Zita and Luc had arrived two days before after taking Ani back to the home.

"We've got to start somewhere." Luc said, handing her the file.

"It could take a while for the results to come back. I'll call you when they come in."

"Thanks, Doc. We owe you." Zita said, gratefully.

"Find me some good French chocolate and we're square." Melinda replied, smiling as the two detectives reached the plastic flap that served her as a door.

"I'm on it!" Zita answered, her phone out and her fingers already dialing. "_Josef ? . . . C'est Zita. . . Ouais, je suis très bien. . . J'ai besoin d'une faveur. . ._" **(Josef? . . . It's Zita . . . Yeah, I'm fine . . . I need a favor . . . )

* * *

**

It was a slow day at the precinct, or, at least it felt like it to Luc and Zita, who were busy trying to look busy. There was nothing else to be done on their case until the DNA results came back in. 

So the two spent long, monotonous hours in their make-shift, nomadic office in any one of the unused interrogation rooms, or the lounge, or the desks of detectives who were out following leads for other cases, or, in a pinch, Zita's own tiny desk set at the ends of John's and Fin's desks. As there was little to do, Luc filled the time watching, what he told Zita, the French news on his laptop. What he was actually doing was watching a James Bond movie on his iPod, which was concealed under his hand when someone was looking. Zita, annoyed by the rumors spreading through the media and internet, agreed to one IM interview with a leading French newspaper and one sit-down interview with a _New York Times_ reporter under the cover of a pseudonym. Every few moments, she would sigh and angrily close out her e-mail inbox, which seemed to be popping up non-stop as other newspapers and magazines sent e-mails requesting interviews. She had opened another e-mail account for the express purpose of avoiding the situation of a clogged personal inbox with begging media companies. She had never planned for all this trouble and attention. Fortunately, Antoine took most of the media brunt for her, appearing in newscast after newscast, newspaper column after newspaper column, almost everyday since he arrived. Lizzette was thrilled by all the attention, even if none of it was directed at her, and spent a good deal of every morning arriving at the Munch/Plouvin homestead at breakfast time with an armful of newspapers and magazines, cutting out articles even after Zita, Luc, and John left for the stationhouse. She even forgot about _The Phantom of the Opera_, which she had been unable to stop talking about until she became Evelyn Scissorhands

Zita was pondering a particularly personal question and Luc was enthralled in his movie, spittle flying across the table as he made shooting noises, when Elliot opened the door.

"Hey, we need the room. Could you move to one of the desks out there?" he asked, looking at Luc with an expression somewhere between curiosity and contained laughter. There was no way he was watching newscasts.

"Yeah, give us a second." Zita answered, stacking files and handing them to Luc, whom she had known all along had been watching James Bond.

"Scratch that, you two." Cragen said, poking his head in. "Pack it up, then head out to the morgue. Warner has something for you."

* * *

"Your stretch wasn't as long as we thought." Warner said when the two arrived in the lab. 

"What'd you find, Doc?" Luc asked, glancing nervously at a cadaver on a metal table covered with a blue cloth.

Melinda Warner clipped an X-ray of the DNA found at the French crime scene up to a light board alongside another picture. "Take a look."

The shots were the same – exactly. There was no doubt.

"Where'd the other DNA come from?" Zita asked.

Warner did not say anything for a long moment.

"Melinda, what is it?"

"The other DNA is from your rape kit, Zita." she answered quietly, almost apologetically.

Zita resisted the urge to hit something. "Your chocolate should get to your house by tomorrow if it's not there when you get home today. Thanks, Doc." she said, nearly whispering, turning to leave.

Melinda stopped her. "Zita, are you okay?"

"I will be," Zita answered quietly, "when I find where he's hiding a little girl and when he's dead or behind bars for life."

* * *

Zita put the Bentley in gear as she tossed her phone to Luc. "Call John. Tell him we're headed to Rikers. I've got a date with Bruno Arnoulle." 

Luc flipped through her contacts list, having not memorized her speed dial directory. "Zita, you'd better calm down. If you burst in there in one of your Lorena Bobbitt moods, we could both get in serious trouble and lose the case on a technicality . . . Hey, Mister Munch, it's me, Luc. We've got a break in our case and we need to head to Rikers to talk to Bruno . . . As far as I know, we're the only ones talking to him now . . . She's driving . . . " Luc paused, looking at the phone. "How do you set the speaker phone?"

Zita took the phone from him without taking her eyes from the road, pressing, what looked to Luc, like a random button.

"What's up, John?"

"You two're not going to Rikers alone." came the grainy reply.

"John, I've been to prisons with just Luc before; I'm not a child."

"You're seventeen, Zita. You're hardly an adult."

"Luc is, and the city of Paris, the country of France, and the freakin' Interpol think I'm old enough! Why can't you accept that?"

"Because, as of now and until your grandfather gets here, I'm your legal guardian, and, as such, I'm responsible for you. I'm sending Fin and calling Rikers. You're not going into an interrogation room without him."

"_John_! Y-"

"This is the last I'm saying on it, Zita. The sooner you accept authority, the sooner you'll get over it."

Zita had had enough and hung up. "Can you _believe_ him? What is his _problem_?"

"At risk of straying from my neutral tendencies in family or family-like arguments, he's only trying to keep you safe. He just lost his fiancé and he's paranoid about losing her daughter. He's being what most fathers are – overprotective. Besides, what's wrong with Fin? I thought you liked him."

"I do, Benedict, but that's not the point. The point is that he's treating me like a five-year-old _victim_, not a detective on a case . . . and _you're_ **_agreeing_ **with him!"

"All right, forget what I said. I have no opinion on the matter." he said quickly, then, after a long pause, added, "But, by your own definition, you_ are_ a victim."

Zita gave him a withering glare. "Call me that again, and you're _walking_ to Rikers."

* * *

Rikers Correctional Facility

1:45 P.M.

* * *

Fin had arrived in the parking lot at Rikers perhaps ten minutes after Zita and Luc. He seemed just as annoyed with the situation as Zita (well, maybe not that annoyed). Before she could say anything about John's decision, he cut her off. "Don't worry. I got good at blending in with the woodwork. I'm just here because my partner insisted on it and there was no future in arguing with him. I know you can handle yourself." 

Zita shut her mouth. At least Fin believed in her capabilities. "Thanks."

* * *

**_BANG!!!!_** "_Où est-elle, Arnoulle?_" **(Where is she, Arnoulle?)**

"_Qu'est arrivé à vous, Zita ? Vous aviez l'habitude d'être si doux-mannered. Même lorsque -_"** (What happened to you, Zita? You used to be so mild-mannered. Even when –)**

"_Répondez à ma question!_"** (Answer my question!) **she interrupted angrily, her hand stinging from where she slammed it down on the table to refrain from hitting Bruno. Neither Luc nor Fin would have said anything, but it would have not gone over well if Jean-Claude Benoît, Bruno's attorney, brought it up in court. "_Qu'avez-vous fait avec elle?_"** (What have you done with her?)**

"_Il n'y a aucun sens en se cachant plus, Bruno._"** (There's no sense in hiding anymore, Bruno.)** Luc said, "_Nous vous avons sur l'ADN. Dites-nous où elle est et nous pourrons parler à la poursuite au sujet de prendre la pénalité de mort outre de la table._"** (We have you on DNA. Tell us where she is and we'll be able to talk to the prosecution about taking the death penalty off the table.)**

"_Et si j'obtiens la pénalité de mort pour pour ce que je suis déjà ici?_"** (And if I get the death penalty for what I'm already here for?)**

"_Si vous recevez la pénalité de mort pour vos crimes ici, c'est votre défaut, pas nôtres. J'ai des hommes partout France la rechercher. Si elle est morte quand ils la trouvent, je serai là pour vous observer prendre votre dernier souffle, je le garantis._"** (If you receive the death penalty for your crimes here, it's your fault, not ours. I have men all over France looking for her. If she's dead when they find her, I'll be there to watch you take your last breath, I guarantee it.) **Zita snarled.

"_Vous ne m'effrayez pas, petite fille, et ils ne la trouveront pas. Vos petits amis peuvent rechercher partout la France - partout l'Europe! - et eux ne la trouvera jamais!_"** (You don't scare me, little girl, and they won't find her. Your little friends can search all over France – all over Europe! – and they'll never find her!)**

"_Ils ne pourraient pas, mais je . Et si elle est morte quand je , vous serez sentiment sa douleur. Et ma mère._"** (They might not, but I will. And if she's dead when I do, you'll be feeling her pain. And my mother's.)**

"_Allez-y et prenez-moi maintenant, parce qu'avant que vous la trouviez, je serai mort du vieil âge._"** (Go ahead and take me now, because by the time you find her, I'll have died of old age.) **

That was it. Somehow, simply playing bad-cop was not good enough anymore. She lunged forward, only to be held back by Luc.

"_Vous amélioreriez la rêne du fait irlandais gâchez à vous, ou vous finirez vers le haut comme votre mère._" (You'd better rein in that Irish temper of yours, or you'll end up like your mother.) Bruno said, a sardonic grin plastered on his face. "_Trop mauvais, celui. Nous avons perdu la seule chose qu'elle était bonne pour, grâce à ceci désordre._"** (Too bad, that. We lost the only thing she was good for, thanks to this mess.) **

Luc almost lost her then and Fin had to come in and help haul her, kicking and struggling, from the room.

* * *

Zita's Bentley

3:00 P.M.

* * *

"What did he say to you in there?" Fin asked, glancing over at Zita, who was sitting, arms crossed, in the Bentley's passenger seat. It had not taken much convincing to get Luc to switch him cars so he could talk to Zita on the way back and get both cars to their respective homes, though talking Zita out of her driver's seat was another story. Nevertheless, Fin had managed to deposite her on the passenger side, explaining in with his usual diplomacy that he was not about to unleash an angry French girl on the streets of Manhattan or anywhere else. He was a cop and it was his job to protect those streets. It would be in direct opposition to his vocation to allow her to drive. "You looked like you were gonna kill him." 

"Not what I wanted to hear, that's for sure." Zita grumbled, "And, if I had, he would've deserved it. No one talks about my mother that way. I don't care who he is."

Fin knew better than to ask what Bruno had said about Bowan. Re-igniting Zita's temper in a car as small as the one he was driving was not an engaging prospect. It was not an engaging prospect in any-sized vehicle or anywhere else. He changed the subject. "I take it you didn't get any of the information you went for?"

Zita sighed and was about to say 'no,' but then the truth of what, exactly, Bruno had said hit her. She sat up straight. "He didn't mean to, but he did." she answered, beginning to get excited. "Did you delete those GPS readings Justin sent you?"

"No. Why?"

"I'll be needing your computer."


	10. Chapter 9

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

**Chapter 9**

SVU Squadroom

4:00 P.M.

"Zita Plouvin, we-"

"Not now, John." Zita said, cutting him off as she typed Fin's access code into his computer. Justin had sent the GPS locations to Fin, assuming that he would send them on to Zita if it was of any importance; however, as Fin was not always at his computer, she had simply always logged into his without learning any other detectives' access codes. She regretted that now, as one of the humans she was mad at was situated directly across from her and showed no intention of moving.

"How'd you know that password?" Fin asked, watching his computer screen from over Zita's shoulder and absent-mindedly retrieving his keys from Luc, who had followed them hin the squadcar from Rikers.

"Mad skills." she replied, accessing his e-mail files and proceeded to copy and paste locations into a new document.

"What are you doing?" Luc asked, "What do those have to do with us?"

Zita did not really want to explain, but Luc's pestering would get annoying after a few minutes if she failed to answer. "Bruno slipped up. He said we could look all over France – all over Europe – and not find Anna-Marie Delacroix, so he must have hidden her somewhere outside Europe. He didn't go by ship to the US, he went by private jet, so chances are, she's not in the ocean, and, since he made no remarks as to the fact that she is dead, and he would have if she were, she's alive. He would have kept her nearby before his incarceration, so he could keep an eye on her. Where else has he been, but in the States?"

"So you're finding out where he's been?"

"Where he's been most besides the chateau, yes. Are you up for a roadtrip, Luc?"she asked, printing out the pages.

Before he could reply, John held up a hand. "Not a chance. You two are not going on this little adventure alone."

Fin and Luc winced. The Irish temper was about to erupt.

Zita rounded on John, her eyes blazing. "If this were your case, searching for a little girl, I don't think you'd be referring to it as a 'little adventure,' John, nor would you let someone get in the way of you doing your job. She may still be alive, but I doubt for much longer, so get out of my way!"

Thrown off by her hostility, John did not respond, but was thankful when Fin did it for him. "Zita, no police force in the world would let two detectives go off on their own like this outside their jurisdiction. Bruno would have people there to guard Anna-Marie. I don't need to expound on what could happen – you already know. You should take some others with you." he told her, leading her away from John, Luc, and the silent, staring crowd.

"Like who? This is a French case – the other five are at the chateau talking to the staff and going through the rooms and heaven only knows where Antoine is at any given time. You told me that you went out of stuff like this with only you and your partner before."

"And your's is an American case with French cops on it. As for only me and my partner working without back-up: it was stupid and I've had this job for years. Experience outweighs knowledge. Would it be so bad to take a couple other people with you?"

Zita knew there was no future in arguing. Fin had been divorced before and had, through it, become a very good debater. "Again, like who? Cragen's busy, Elliot and Olivia are working on two other cases at the same time, and you and John have a growing mountain of paperwork. I don't want you to get in trouble for not getting stuff done."

"I got no one to go home to, I've got no reason to leave work at work. John hates paperwork as it is and I'll keep him outa your hair. He just cares about you. Being overprotective is what fathers do . . . and father-_figures_." he added quickly, hoping Zita had not caught his near-mistake, which, of course, she had, but now was not the time to ponder it.

"I know." Zita grumbled, still annoyed. "Just let me drive."

* * *

Cabin off Highway 90

Southeast of Rome, New York

7:00 P.M.

* * *

Zita had almost lost control several times when John's panicked instructions reached too high a pitch for her to ignore. Fin and Luc managed to stay on top of things by hitting their partners with Pez candy pieces before the two of them said something they would have regretted. They were running out of Pez and Zita had managed to snatch Luc's dispenser and throw it out the window at least three times, only for him to produce yet another. Unfortunately, they were only three hours into the trip. 

The merry band had decided to head to the farthest point on the map first and work their way back to Manhattan, reasoning that Bruno would want to keep his prize as far away from the NYPD's radar, to say nothing of that of the French police.

"I swear, Luc, the next time you throw a Pez at me –" Zita started, but was interrupted by another Pez hitting her nose. She glared at Fin, who had thrown the second piece, through the rear view mirror. "Whatever I was going to do to him goes double for you. Let's go."

The cabin was small and easy to break into and out of. It did not take long for them to realize that Bruno would have never left the little girl there. Unfortunately, the case was the same for the next two locations. A kidnapper would have had to be a fool to have left his hostage in any of the buildings they found.

"We should head back to the city." John said when they fell back into the car after searching the second location, "It's getting close to nine thirty and Zita and I have a court date tomorrow morning."

Zita leaned back in the driver's seat, taking a deep breath and letting it out through her teeth in annoyance and frustration, an act that might have earned her a Pez to the ear if she had not stolen Fin and Luc's supply and buried it at the first cabin. At least, all of the ammunition she could grab. "And why wasn't I told?"

"I would have told you earlier, when you and Luc got back to the station, but you caught a lead and wouldn't have listened if I told you."

Sensing an argument coming on, Fin finally managed to lay hands on and wield a stick of Mentos, shaking it at John. "Don't start. You could have told her earlier."

"So much for getting rid of all your ammo." Zita muttered loud enough for Luc to hear.

"You shouldn't've let us go into that gas station shop alone."

Zita glanced over at Luc. "What're you doing?" she asked as she pulled out of the "driveway."

Luc's closed laptop was littered with parts from a Pez dispenser and a clicky pen, two large, mangled paperclips, and bits of candy. "I'm putting my mind to work." he answered, fitting a spring from the pen and one of the paperclips into the tube part of the Pez dispenser.

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Doing this." he said, taking aim and snapping the dispenser's cartoon head back, firing a Pez, which hit the side window, barely missing her.

Zita sighed again. "If you keep doing that, you're walking home. I mean it this time."

* * *

Zita's/John's Townhouse

1:30 A.M.

January 11, 2004

* * *

Fin had pulled John from the car when Zita dropped him off around midnight at his apartment and held a short, whispered conversation with him before entering his building. John got back in the car and managed not to say anything until after Luc disappeared into his room. However, when he turned around to say what he had been mentally rehearsing since Fin left, Zita had vanished into her room and shut the door all the way. He knew better than to try to talk to her now – things would be better in the morning. 

It was, perhaps, an hour later that John, who was sitting in his room, going over a case file, heard Zita's door close and footsteps on the stairs leading to the roof. He knew better than to think suicide – when Zita promised something, she stuck to it – but her death may occur without her meaning to. She never wore a coat unless he forced her and it was a balmy four below.

John sighed and headed downstairs to get her coat. She would not have to like it, but he was going to get her to wear something warmer than a hoodie if it killed him.

When John finally reached the roof, his breathing slightly heavy and his body shivering, he shook his head at what he saw. Zita did not even have a long-sleeved shirt on; just an old Paris police t-shirt. He was about to say something when he heard her. At first, he thought she was talking on the phone, but then he realized that he had seen her cell phone charging on the kitchen counter downstairs. He took a few steps closer to her and listened to what she was saying.

". . . And I don't know what to do anymore. This whole search for Anna-Marie is so far-fetched, it almost doesn't seem real. There's too many variables. And even if we do find her, it'll probably be too late. It's so cold out and she can't have much food left – if any." she sighed, "You'd've found her by now, Mom, you'd've found her on your own. You'd've fixed everything by now. I suppose I'll never find out how you did it, will I?"

John sniffed silently. He could not blame her, even though, after his father died, he had thought it stupid to speak to a dead person. It was why he still felt guilty. He had never apologized for his last words to his father.

"Has she answered yet?" he asked after about five minutes of silence.

Zita turned around, startled by his voice, but did not say anything. She turned back around as he approached and draped her coat around her shoulders. "You're going to freeze out here." he said, leaning against the railing beside her, gazing out at the city.

"It's almost as if she knew he'd be after her. Like she knew she was going to die." Zita whispered, almost inaudibly, more at the night sky than to John.

John thought back to the two letters Bowan had written and placed in her journal, which CSU had returned the morning after.

"Like . . . like . . ." Zita tried to continue, but could not for the sobs that were choking her.

John could not take it anymore. He pulled Zita into his arms and held her like a baby as she cried. "Like she wanted to let you know how she'd hold you if her arms could reach. It's why you stand on the roof – to be as near to her as you can."

Zita sniffed, trying to control her sobs long enough for her to speak. "How do you know?"

John stroked her hair. "I've been around too much, lost enough people, not to know. Of course, the rooftops I stood on weren't always as nice as this one. Heck, I didn't always have a rooftop."

They were silent for a few minutes – no sound but stars and the light bustle of the early-morning streets below.

"Hey, John?" Zita asked finally, turning her face so that her words would not be muffled by his coat.

"Hmmm?"

"Can I call you dad?"

John was taken aback by the question. He and Bowan had not really discussed it that much, figuring that, once they were married, he could simply adopt Zita, regardless of her true paternal history. Yet there was another realization under the surprise. He had not wanted to admit it, even to himself, but Fin had been right when he confronted John in front of his apartment building. John had _not_ exactly been trying to make her job easier and he _had _been treating her like a child, rather than a cop, actions that should earn her an apology. And, even without his asking, he had been forgiven.

He squeezed her tighter. "You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart."

* * *

Casey Novak's Office

9:24 A.M.

January 11, 2004

* * *

"What do you mean, 'deal'?" 

"Both Zita and Bowan said that Pierre brought other men into this rape loop. Benoît bypassed me and authorized a deal with Branch, as these other men had been proven by court records and Pierre's testimony to the DA to be convicted pedophiles and rapists in France. Pierre's serving life in a minimum security prison in exchange for the names of the men. I've already faxed Ludont a copy." Casey told Munch and Zita, more than slightly annoyed at the situation.

"Don't worry. Ludont is prosecuting-happy. They'll do life, too, all of 'em." Zita said. "What's Pierre getting for almost beating Gabrielle Renoulle to death?"

"He's got life, Zita. I can't make them keep his dead body in a prison cell."

"What about putting him in tighter security? He's not very strong, but he's smart and charismatic. It wouldn't surprise me at all if he wound up with a following among other sex offenders there. They could help him break out."

"We can't. It's already a done deal. But don't worry. Bruno won't get off so easily. He's going to court. Especially after what Xavier told me yesterday." Casey said, her eyes going slightly hazy at the mention of the ex-bodyguard's name.

"What did he tell you yesterday?" John asked, fiddling with one of the knickknacks on her desk.

"He said that Zita had called Etienne to tell him that she and Luc had pinned Bruno on their double homicide/kidnaping and that they wouldn't be back until late because they were out looking for the girl who was kidnaped." Casey answered, as though that was all he had said, hoping the two detectives would leave it at that.

Unfortunately for Casey, that was hardly Zita's intention. The teenager leaned back in her chair. "You and Xavier seem to be getting rather close. Is there anything else you want to tell us about your conversation last night?"

Casey applied herself fiercely to the task of tidying up her desk, trying desperately not to blush. "Nnnno. Now, I've got an awful lot of work to do, so, if you don't mind . . ."

"Actually, we've got a lot of work to do as well." John said, standing, "Let's go, Zita."

"I'll be back, Casey." Zita warned, grinning, "You haven't seen the last of me."

As the elevator's doors shut behind them, John and Zita burst into helpless laughter.

"She's got a lot of work to do, my eye! Reggie could see past that – and his eyebrows cover his eyes."

"Did you see that blush? I didn't know it was humanly possible to turn that color!"

Back in Casey's office, the ADA grabbed her phone, dialing a familiar number.

"Hello, Casey."

"Etienne, are you going to the hospital today?"

"Yeah, actually, I'm right outside. He's taken to flushing the hospital food down the toilet and ordering from the dollar menu at McDonald's. I guess his first brush with death wasn't enough. Now he's pushing for heart disease."

"When you get to his room, can you have him call me?"

"Sure, is that all?"

"Uh, one more thing. Would Zita be mad or fire Xavier if she found out we'd been seeing each other since early November?"

Etienne laughed. "Not a chance. In fact, if she knows, she's probably planning your wedding." He did not feel it necessary to mention that, chances were, Zita already knew and was in the process of arranging a honeymoon in Paris for the couple.

Casey tried to hide her sigh of relief. "Okay, thanks, Etienne."

"Anytime."

* * *

"So, since there's no trial today, I assume you're planning on heading back out to re-start your search?" John asked as Zita wove in and out of traffic.

"I'll have to stop by to see if Fin and Luc are free." Zita answered, honking her horn at a driver who seemed so entranced by the green light above to have any remembrance as to what it meant.

"They were planning on coming to the trial, so I'll bet they're free, for a while, at least." he replied, gripping the handle on the door so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Zita had never gotten in an accident, but she had come close. "Why do you need Fin?"

"Because you don't want me and Luc traipsing around New York alone." she answered, coming to an abrupt stop to keep from flattening a jaywalker.

"Um, about that." John began, "I was being paranoid. You didn't become a detective so soon for your health and they didn't give you a badge just because they felt like it. If you and Luc are all right going with it alone, that's fine – just be careful."

"Are you serious, Dad?" she asked, stunned, "Do you need to lie down? See a shrink? Maybe be bled by leeches?"

"Ha, ha, very funny. I'm serious, Zita, go."

"You're actually going to let me go alone with Luc?"

"Yeah, go."

"And you're not stoned?"

"Zita!"

"You're sure about this?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay, thanks. Do you want me to drop you off at home or at the station?"

"I've got some things to catch up on at work. If you're not back by the time I'm ready to go, I'll catch a ride home with Elliot."

"All right," she said, pulling up in front of the stationhouse. "I'm going back home to switch cars. Is there anything you need?"

"Is there anymore of that Oreo thing you made the night before last or did Luc finish it off?"

"Dad, there's about half of it left. Luc doesn't eat _that_ much."

John chuckled. "Don't cover for him, Zita. I saw him eat at that buffet the other night. They had to re-stock it twice."

Zita had not argument. Luc fit nicely between stringbean and muscles-like-a-Michelangelo-statue-buff, but he could eat enough to feed a small, third-world country. "You want anything else?"

"Do we have any plastic silverware?"

"I think so."

"I think that's it."

"All right, I'll be back."

* * *

2:00 P.M.

* * *

There were ten more remote locations left to be searched. Thankfully, they were relatively close together. Zita had patted Luc down, looking for small pieces of candy, which he had been throwing at her since the day before, even when she and John were not arguing. They were slowly driving her insane and she was determined to avoid the small missiles and their launching mechanism, the humiliated Pez dispenser. 

"_Turn left at the next street._" the Bentley's computer GPS voice uttered from the speakers.

"That voice is getting really annoying." Luc grumbled.

"Then learn how to read a map." she said, turning down yet another one of the numerous dirt roads that had begun to make Zita regret not renting a jeep, or at least a less-expensive car than the luxury one from Britain, identical to the one her grandfather had purchased for her for appearance's sake six months before she left for the states. He made sure that plenty of teen magazines were present at the party. She smiled. The party had lasted well into the early morning hours, but the Paris newspapers were reporting a triple homicide case solved by Detectives Luc Brenoille and Rachelle Plouvette at 10:30 that night. The duo had made front-page news. Luc had waited for her outside the estate and they snuck off with the partiers none the wiser. They had come perilously close to having "Rachelle Plouvette's" identity exposed that night, even with the photographers unable to get a shot of her.

_Well, it's exposed now._ Zita thought, _No more hiding from the public like that._

Somehow, she doubted she would miss it.

* * *

8:00 P.M.

* * *

"This is the last stop. She's got to be here." Luc said, moaning slightly as he stepped from the car. It had been a cold, fruitless day of searching, but, at last, the had come to the final house. By process of elimination, this had to be where she was.

It was not much. Less of a house than a shed. They scoured the floor of the empty shack for any sign of a trap door leading down to a hidden room, or even, hopefully not, disturbed dirt where he had buried her.

Nothing. No footprints outside leading anywhere but to the door either.

"We must've missed something. Have any of the teams radioed back yet?" Luc asked when they piled back in the car.

"Or I was dead wrong. He could've stashed her anywhere before we got the locator on the car, including Canada. CSU's been all over the chateau – they found rooms _I_ never knew existed, and I used to explore the place all the time when I was a kid. If she was there, they'd've found her." Zita said dejectedly, turning the heater on high and sat, her head resting on the steering wheel, waiting for the engine to heat up.

"You're not giving up, are you?" Luc asked, suddenly alarmed by his partner's gloomy mood.

"Of course not!" she snapped, but her voice carried more sadness and frustration than sting. "It's just that our greatest hope of finding her has proved to be our greatest dead end and the longer she stays hidden, the greater her chances are of being found dead. And it would've been my fault."

"Zita Rachelle Plouvin –"

"Don't call me that!" Zita yelled, "I never believed he was my father and I won't go by his name!"

Luc was almost startled by the outcry. Perhaps this whole ordeal had finally begun to take its real toll. "Zita, none of this, any of this, is your fault. You were ten years old when this all happened – you couldn't have stopped him; and now, rather than moping in a corner and throwing a pity party, you're out there _doing_ something about it, and trying to keep it from happening to others and bringing the perps to justice when we're too late to stop them. The perps are at fault, not you."

"It's kinda hard to bring him to justice, Luc," Zita said, "when I'm too worried about a little girl that's out there right now, probably alive but wanting to die and there's nothing I can do about it."

* * *

The duo had taken the scenic route back to the city and the clocks were striking ten thirty when Zita dropped Luc off at the townhouse, explaining that she had something to do at the station before coming home. He was tempted to go with her, but he knew she needed to be alone right now. Why she wanted to be alone at a police station, he would never know, but he let it drop. 

"Is there any more of that Oreo stuff left?" he asked her as he got out of the car.

"I doubt it." she said, making a mental note to double the recipe next time she made it.

* * *

SVU Squadroom 

11:30 P.M.

* * *

Zita sat at John's desk, pouring over New York State's abandoned children database. If there was the slightest chance that Anna-Marie was in America and that she might have broken out of whatever containment cell Bruno had been keeping her in, maybe someone, somewhere had reported it. A girl who only spoke the most basic English – probably not enough to get by on – would draw attention. The girl's face had been burned into her memory from looking at it so much over the past eight months. Picture after picture proved a disappointment – none of the images that popped up from the search engine matched the picture given to her by the girl's father. But Bruno could have changed her appearance – dyed her hair, fake tanner, etc. Her search suddenly got a lot harder. 

"Any luck?"

Zita jumped at the echo of Don Cragen's voice in the, for once, empty squadroom. "Oh, Captain, I didn't know anyone was here."

Cragen, who had been standing in the doorway of his office, dressed in navy blue-striped pajamas, walked over to stand behind her, sighing as he arrived. "I don't go home much."

He pulled up a chair. "John tells me you think your victim's in the States?"

"I'm not so sure anymore. Luc and I finished searching the GPS locations we had from what Justin sent Fin. Nothing. No signs of anyone inside, least of all a small child. There weren't even any tire tracks outside most locations." she replied wearily through a yawn, leaning back in her chair.

"And you think that someone found her?"

"I've got to look somewhere. I don't wanna think that Bruno had a Canadian friend pick her up, and Bruno could've changed what she looked like, so it's near-impossible to get a hit on any photo databases." she sighed again, "I can't help but think that my mom would have found her months ago."

"Zita, you're doing the best you can."

"Well, my best obviously isn't good enough. That family's been through enough. I don't want to have to tell them that their only child left has disappeared into thin air or that she's dead, too."

"Maybe you're getting too close to this case – too personal."

Zita shook her head. "No, I'm passionate about all my cases. It's why I've got a good record. Only one unsolved case. That's a kidnaping one, too."

"_Is_? You're working two of these at once?"

"No, that case was declared cold a year and a half ago. I guess we all have that one case we keep in our back pocket to chew on, huh?"

Cragen nodded in agreement. He had several. "Tell you what, kiddo," he said, throwing an arm around Zita's shoulders, "if you get me a recent picture of your missing friend, I can put out an amber alert in the morning. We can alert the Canadian officials if you think they may have crossed the border. You're a good detective, Zita, but no detective can do something like this all on their own or even with their partners. Sometimes, it takes a station."

Zita logged off the database, predicting the topic of Don's next statement, "I guess you're right." she admitted grudgingly.

Cragen ruffled her hair. "I'm glad you agree. Now, besides the picture, I have one more condition to ask of you before I send out the alert."

"And what's that?"

"You go home and go to bed." he said, turning John's computer off.

"I suppose I don't have choice?"

"No, you don't. If you were my detective, I'd have sent you home hours ago. I've never seen someone your age with bags like those under their eyes. You look like you're in your thirties."

"Gee, thanks." Zita said sarcastically, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "All right. But just for you."

"I appreciate it – and so does John. He's probably worried sick."

"I wouldn't be surprised." Zita said standing. "'Night, Cap'n."

"Good night, Zita." he replied as she turned to go, then stopped her again as she reached the doorway.

"Oh, and Zita?"

She turned in reply.

"You're mother's proud of you.

It was the best thing she'd heard all day.


	11. Chapter 10

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

**Chapter 10**

* * *

January 12, 2004

John and Zita's Townhouse

12:10 a.m.

* * *

"He _what_?"

"Zita, calm down before your heart explodes."

"Dad, my _partner_ took _my_ car and went to _Rikers_ to talk to _Bruno_ behind _my back_! This is _not_ a 'calm down' situation!" Zita almost yelled, waving the note Luc had left on her bedroom door over her head.

"He doesn't want you to get in trouble." John said in a placationary tone, "He's just trying to protect you from what almost happened last time."

"So's everyone else, including the mailman!" she exclaimed, whipping out her cellphone.

John sighed and went back to his newspaper. There was no talking to her when she was in one of her moods.

She was silent for a few seconds, waiting for Luc to pick up. After three rings, it cut to his voicemail. His phone was off.

"Luc, you are in _so_ much trouble when you get home, do you understand me? Call me _immediately_ after you get this message!" she half-yelled into the phone then hung up and stomped up the stairs, muttering darkly to herself about wringing necks.

John sighed again, shaking his head. If her mood did not lighten soon, the city would be hearing thunder.

* * *

Rikers Correctional Facility

January 11, 2004

11:50 p.m.

* * *

Luc sighed as he waited for the guard to bring Bruno out. Zita would flip multiple times when she found out he had done this and he felt guilty, now, but not enough to turn back. He needed to talk to Bruno alone without the insults directed at Zita and Bowan. It was late and he did not have time for it.

When the guard finally led Bruno to the phone booth, Luc could see the big man roll his eyes. The ex-bodyguard waited until the guard went back to his post by the door before picking up his handset.

"_Vous savez que je ne peux pas vous parler sans mon présent d'avocat._" **(You know I can't talk to you without my lawyer present.)** he said, a mocking grin spreading across his face.

"_Je ne suis pas ici pour parler de la cour ou de l'épreuve -- ne pas égaliser votre culpabilité ou innocence, ainsi votre mandataire n'est pas nécessaire._" **(I'm not here to talk about court or the trial – not even your guilt or innocence, so your attorney isn't needed.)** Luc said, "_Pourquoi la cachez-vous ? Pourquoi laissez-pas simplement la vont?_" **(Why do you hide her? Why not just let her go?)**

"_Aucun corps, aucun cas. Règles simples d'application de loi._" **(No body, no case. Simple law enforcement rules.)**

"_Vous êtes trop en retard ; nous avons assez d'évidence physique contre vous pour pour ne pas avoir besoin d'un corps._" **(You're too late; we've got enough physical evidence against you so as not to need a body.)** Luc sighed, "_Regardez, nous avons suivi votre conseil et -_" **(Look, we followed your hint and – )**

"_Quel conseil?_" **(What hint?)**

"_Celui vous nous avez donnés. Au sujet d'Anna-Marie n'étant pas en Europe - au sujet de son être en Amérique. Nous n'essayons pas de vous entrer dans plus d'ennui. Nous sommes essai juste de la trouver. Dites-juste moi où elle est et je demanderai au juge un degré de clémence._" **(The one you gave us. About Anna-Marie not being in Europe – about her being in America. We're not trying to get you into any more trouble. We're just trying to find her. Just tell me where she is and I'll ask the judge for a degree of leniency.)**

Bruno appeared to think about it for a moment.

"_Je sais que vous voulez me dire, Bruno. Dégagez votre conscience._" **(I know you want to tell me, Bruno. Clear your conscience.)**

Bruno's indecision fell. "_Je ne vous dis pas quelque chose. Bruno n'a aucune conscience. Si elle meurt, son sang est sur le votre et les mains de Zita._" **(I'm not telling you anything. Bruno has no conscience. If she dies, her blood is on your and Zita's hands.)**

"Bruno –"

"_Revenu ici encore et je poursuis pour le harcèlement._" **(Come back here again and I'm suing for harassment. )**Bruno growled then called, in English, "Guard!"

Luc refrained from slamming the phone back into its cradle and conceded to slamming the corvette's door after he got in instead. Zita would kill him. Not only did he, technically, steal her car, but he also effectively locked the door on gleaning any more information from Bruno, the only one they knew of who knew Anna-Marie's location. If she did not kill him, she would come close.

* * *

Zita and John's Townhouse

January 12, 2004

2:00 a.m.

* * *

Luc breathed a sigh of relief when he was that all lights but the little lamp in the living room were out. The last thing he wanted right then was an encounter with the doubtlessly angry Zita Plouvin.

Zita kept a spare house key under her cars' driver side floormats, so he had no problem getting back into the house. He closed the door carefully behind him, locked it again, and began to make his way past the stairs to his room off to the right of the kitchen. Unfortunately for him, he never make it that far. He jumped in surprise when he heard the voice right behind him and felt a firm hand over his mouth and another over his hand, keeping him from reaching the sidearm in his holster.

"_Que, au nom de toutes les choses bonnes et saintes, pensiez-vous, Luc Brenoille?_" **(What, in the name of all things good and holy, were you thinking, Luc Brenoille?)** the angry voice whispered. Luc relaxed slightly, but only slightly, recognizing the voice. It was not a voice belonging to someone you wanted angry with you.

"_Zita, je suis désolé._" **(Zita, I'm sorry.)**

"**Désolé**_? Vous êtes _**désolé** _Cela n'est pas ce qui j'a demandé, Luc! Je n'ai pas demandé des excuses! Je veux savoir ce qui a possédé mon associé normalement pondéré pour aller bien à un idiot bête ! Et ne blâmez pas la lune - elle n'est pas pleine._" _**Sorry**_**? You're **_**sorry**_**? That's not what I asked, Luc! I didn't ask for an apology! I want to know what possessed my normally level-headed partner to become a brainless idiot! And don't blame the moon – it's not full.)**

"_J'ai dû lui parler sans insultes. Vous avez été insulté assez, le temps passé juste que nous l'avons vu. J'essayais de vous maintenir sûr._" **(I needed to talk to him without the insults. You've been insulted enough, just last time we saw him. I was trying to keep you safe.)**

"**Sûr**? _Que, pensez-vous que je ne peux pas le manipuler? __J'avais __été insulté pendant_ **sept années**_. Quand est-ce que j'ai perdu la commande? Combien de pannes ai-je eues? _" _**Safe**_**? What, you think I can't handle it? I've been being insulted for **_**seven years**_**. When have I lost control? How many breakdowns have I had?)**

"_Aucun_." **(None.)**

"_Aucun. Ainsi essai d'arrêt -_" **(None. So stop trying – )**

A rustle and a moaning few words were heard from John, who was sleeping on the couch. He rarely slept well and often spoke in his sleep when he did.

Zita pulled Luc farther into the house and closed Luc's bedroom door behind them. John's lack of sleep worried her and the last thing she wanted was to wake him up. "_Comme je disais - cessez d'essayer de me protéger. Je peux manipuler l'abus mieux que n'importe qui ici donne me le degré de solvabilité pour, ainsi à arrêt me traitant comme un enfant._" **(As I was saying – stop trying to protect me. I can handle abuse better than anyone here gives me credit for, so stop treating me like a child.)**

"_Mais vous ne devriez pas _**devoir **_souffrir l'abus._" **(But you shouldn't **_**have**_** to suffer abuse.)**

"_Ouais, bien, je . Et aussi longtemps que je suis dans l'application de loi, je doute qui changera. Peut maintenant vous laissez-moi faire mon travail et est-ce qu'être votre associé ou je devrai avoir affaire avec vous jouant le nursemaid à moi et allant en solo sur moi toute l'heure?_" **(Yeah, well, I do. And as long as I'm in law enforcement, I doubt that will change. Now can you let me do my job and be your partner or will I have to deal with you playing nursemaid to me and going solo on me all the time?)**

"_J'ai dit que j'étais désolé. Queest-ce que voulez-vous que je dise?_" **(I said I was sorry. What else do you want me to say?)** Luc asked, trying to keep his emotions from his voice; however, Zita saw and heard through it, and it, as his wounded-puppy routine, purposeful or not, so often did, melted whatever anger was there at the time.

She sighed. "_Regardez, je suis désolé. Vous n'avez pas mérité cela._" **(Look, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.) **She leaned against his desk, breaking back out into English, "It's just that ever since Mom and I came here and the squad found out what'd been going on, and especially after Mom died, I've been treated like a victim, especially by Olivia. I know she doesn't mean to, but it comes out in the way she makes conversations between the NYPD detecives about cases involving repeated rape and child abuse cease whenever I come into the room. It's like I'm someone to pity and feel sorry for – like I was five and not seventeen. I'm a cop not a kid."

"You're pretty grown-up for a seventeen-year-old – sometimes even I forget . . . until you cry."

Zita scoffed. "When have you ever seen me cry?"

"On the way back from trips to the ME's office to see a child's body or when you've realized that we were too late to stop a rape or homicide or when Larriont died last August in that shootout. You didn't want anyone to see, but it'll take a lot more than just tuning your head away to fool me. You were taught as a child not to cry, and, unfortunately for you, your childhood comes out when your adult mask falls down.. You can only keep it up so long."

Zita did not say anything. There was nothing that made any sense left to say. _Curse 'im._ she thought, _He's all the more annoying when he's right._

Luc continued. "Any other seventeen-year-old would have just given up – maybe even on life itself. You wouldn't go that far and we all know you'd never give up on this, but it's okay to act your age. You only need to be an adult when you're on duty."

She had not realized he had started crying until he stepped closer to her and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Am I forgiven? If I promise not to steal your car again?" he asked, opening his arms.

She fell into them and let him hold her. She could not have stayed mad at her "big brother" anyway.

* * *

SVU Squadroom

1:30 p.m.

* * *

The squadroom was void for the most part. The detectives were either out working cases or out hunting for lunch. Zita sat alone at John's desk, still searching through the lost and abandoned children's database. She was not willing to believe that the girl was dead and, having followed all the leads she and Luc had been given, it seemed the only productive thing to do was keep looking.

She almost jumped when she felt a pair of hands descend on her shoulders.

"How goes the search?"

Zita looked up into the face of Captain Don Cragen. "Fruitless. Is the Amber Alert set up?"

Cragen pulled Fin's chair over and sat down. "It is and the Mounties are on the lookout, too. Where's Luc? He's usually with you."

"With Antoine and the others out at lunch then back to the chateau. Liz is back at the house scrapbooking and helping Xavier and Etienne move in."

"So he'll be staying with you from now on?"

"Until he's fully recovered. After that, it's his choice. Etienne's too. I haven't really _needed_ a bodyguard, lately. No one in America really knows who I am, except what's been in the papers, and no one in Parliament will come to the aid of Pierre's cause, now. If he had hired hitmen to take me out, they'd've done it by now. I'm relatively safe here."

"And in Paris?"

She shrugged. "Depends on how the media's portraying this. How it's portraying _me_. I wasn't that well-liked in France because I didn't openly go out around the public. I used a pseudonym on my cases and around any reporters and they never got a picture of me in uniform, so no one knew what I did. They probably just thought I sat around and spent money. A second Marie Antoinette, if you will." she replied, trailing off into silence.

"But?" he prodded. He could tell, thanks to his years of conducting interviews and interrogating suspects, that she had not finished her thoughts.

It took a few moments for her to respond. "But I don't want to go back to Paris." she said quietly, "My mother's gone, my legal father is incarcerated for life, I've got nothing left there. Antoine and Lizzette have offered to let me live with them and I still have a job in the French police, but there's too many memories and I've finally gotten settled here in New York. This is where my mother is, this is where I was born – I belong here."

"And the man you consider to be your father is here."

Zita was surprised by that. Cragen noticed. "I was a detective once, too, you know. I've heard what you call him when you think no one else can hear. I've noticed that he doesn't correct anyone when they call him your father. You belong together."

"I've wished that for a long time. I never believed Pierre was my father. I always thought that my real dad was out there somewhere. I don't look anything like Pierre . . . or John, really, but it was all too much to hope for. Now I'm not so sure."

"For years, John showed no obvious interest in kids, but now he's fully prepared to be the best father in the world. He'll never admit it, but he's always wanted kids – you can tell by his disposition. Ever since you came into his life, despite everything bad that's happened, his mood's been far better than ever before. You and your mother changed him."

The voices of the four main detectives were heard as they stepped from the elevator, returning from lunch.

"But more on that later." Cragen said, standing and returning Fin's chair to his desk. "Your dad's back."

* * *

John and Zita's Townhouse

11:50 p.m.

* * *

Zita lay on her bed, half-asleep. There was nothing more she could do on her case and she did not want to go downstairs, lest she disturb the crypt-like silence that had descended over the house now that everyone had gone to sleep and Casey and the Antoines had gone to their respective homes/hotel rooms. Zita smiled at how Casey had blushed when she had confronted her about the ADA's relationship with the bodyguard.

"_So when did you and Xavier establish couple-hood?"_

_Casey blushed tomato red and almost denied the assumed accusation, but, remembering what Etienne had told her, reluctantly answered, "First date – November fourth."_

"_So that's why Mom said I had to stay at the stationhouse while Etienne drove her and John to the restaurant all those times."_

_Casey nodded. "You're not upset with him, are you? I mean, bodyguards are supposed to keep their minds on their jobs, not on other people besides their employers, right?"_

_Zita laughed. "Upset? Why would I be upset? Look, Xavier's not getting any younger and won't be able to do any more bodyguarding work with his injury. He needs to settle down. I call godparent-ship, and if you know of any other good single girls who are looking for a really tall guy to call their own, send them Etienne's way. He needs a woman."_

_Casey breathed a sigh of relief. "Etienne was right."_

"_About what?"_

"_He said you'd react like this. He said when you found out, you'd probably start planning our wedding."_

But Lizzette, who had been listening in, had beaten Zita to the draw. No sooner had she heard the word "wedding," than she had her boyfriend on the phone. His father managed a chamber orchestra.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the British National Anthem blaring through her phone's speakers.

"You don't sleep, do you?"

Justin snorted. "What? _You're_ awake."

"It's ten till seven a.m. where you are and you've been calling me all day. You haven't slept since – for you – two nights ago, have you?"

"_Three_ nights, actually, but back to my reason for calling. Remember how you asked me earlier to go back and check to make sure that I sent every one of the GPS locations from car and the credit card receipts before and after December twenty-first?"

"Did you find one?"

"Yeah, but there's a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

Justin sighed. "When I tried to send it to you back in December, it wouldn't send. I could open it, but the message was garbled. The department I got the locations from uses Macs and we use Microsoft, but we never had this problem before. Now, I can't even open it."

Zita threw her pillow against the wall in frustration. They were so close. "Well, did you ask if the department could open it for you?"

"They could open it, but the screen was blank. The little box came up and said the file was corrupted and refused to let it open."

Zita sighed. "Interpol has access to the most advanced technology in the world and you can't get its departments on the same system?"

"Not without rewriting all the programs and buying new equipment. Do you know how much time and money that would take?"

"I don't wanna know. Is there _any_ way of getting that message sent coherently?"

"I could try but it would take time."

"How much time?"

"I don't know, really."

"What about an estimate?"

"Maybe a month?"

"A _month_? Are you that busy?"

"I've got three other techies working on it besides me. It could take less time, could take more. It depends on what kind of program I can write and what kind of fight the file will put up." he answered, "You being mad at me isn't going to help anything."

Zita sighed again. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you; it's just been a long day. Xavier's moved in from the hospital, Luc managed to cut all ties with Bruno as a source of information, I have to be in court tomorrow afternoon after I pick Ludont up from the airport –"

"Zita," he interrupted.

"What?"

"Go to sleep."

"Why? It's not like I'm _actually_ gonna sleep."

"Just try. Do it for me. There's nothing more you can do about any of this right now and it won't do you any good being drop-dead . . ." he paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right word, "exhausted when it _is_ time to do something."

"I'll go to sleep now if you'll get to bed at a decent hour tonight."

"Deal."

"I'll call your dad to make sure you hold to that."

"Wait, what if I'm not in bed? You'll still have gone to sleep without my keeping my part of the bargain."

"Well, then you'll just have to be a good boy and be trustworthy enough to keep your half of the deal. We'll deal with it when we get there."

"Goodnight, Zita."

"Goodnight, Justin."

* * *

Justin Mianovich leaned back in his desk chair, looking out at the still star-studded sky that hung darkly above London while he waited for any news from his staff at Interpol.

He had never had a girlfriend or been in love with anyone before, so he assumed that this feeling that, for months, had been welling up inside him whenever Zita was mentioned was just that. If he had not stopped himself from saying "drop-dead _gorgeous_," he would have never be able to speak to Zita again, never mind actually work with her. Thoughts like the one he had almost expressed had been popping up a lot, lately, and they both thrilled and terrified him, though not exactly in that order. He was nineteen now and his grandmother had begun bringing young "friends" home from the girl's school she taught at for "tutoring." It was more like a speed-dating session from the pits of Hades. If she found that he had his mind on someone, maybe she would leave him alone. Not only that, but it would not be just a charade. He really did care for Zita. On the flip-side of the coin, Zita had been treated to lines and lines of prospective suitors that she was probably sick of the whole thing. She would rather focus on work than a relationship, especially right now. Besides, he was about as nerdy ad one could get without wearing a pair of suspenders and pants that came up to his armpits and down to six inches above his ankles. He did not dress the part or even act the part most of the time, but he certainly thought it. He was a nerd and had come to accept that, but nerds were hardly in style, especially not for young women who were raised around members of Parliament and brought up in high society. Wealthy rugby players were in style, boarding-schooled polo players were in style, professional soccer-, cricket-, tennis players were in style, up-and-coming singers and actors were in style. Going up to Zita and asking her out would not be unlike informing Prince William's fiancé that His Highness was no longer interested but, he, Justin Mianovich, was free for the taking. He did not have a prayer, but knew, fortunately for him, that, if he did gather enough courage to ask, she would do her best to let him down easy.

* * *

Little did Justin know that hundreds of miles away, across an ocean, someone he knew very well was thinking the same thing.

Zita lay in bed, listening to Reggie's snoring and watching him chase rabbits in his dreams. _At least _someone's_ getting some sleep in here._ she thought.

She had not meant to sound angry at Justin and still felt guilty about it. He and his staff were up much earlier than she would consider waking under normal circumstances, using his time and energy and those of his staff's, calling her with live updates, making sure she was getting enough sleep, all just for her, and asking for nothing in return. They had always been close, but she had not always felt this way about him. Ever since his mother died five years before, the bond they shared grew tighter and tighter. Maybe this was the climax of their relationship – her being so far away and in such emotional turmoil and him so lonely and suffering the turmoil all over again with the person who helped him through his own tragedy had made them realize they needed each other.

Of course, when Zita contemplated this, there was no "them" or "they." Justin would not date her if she was the last girl on earth. When Justin bought something or looked for something to buy or asked for something, you could be sure that it was of the highest quality. The youngest Mianovich would never buy damaged or used merchandise, so it was more than safe to assume that the same philosophy applied to a soulmate. Zita knew she had been used and abused on major scales more often than she wanted to think about. She had as much of a chance at him falling in love with her as hard as she had in him as a smashed computer had of calculating pi in its entirety.

Besides, he was a super-genius who could easily make himself a very wealthy, popular man – the next Bill Gates if he put just the inventions and _obsolete_ computer programs he had created on the market. When the hype from this case faded and when the public forgot about her, all she would be was an American detective with a full bank account, as she would be receiving Pierre's entire estate, thanks to a lawsuit Ludont was working for her, besides that of her mother's. She would be wealthy, but obscure. Justin could be famous. Justin could do better.

Zita sighed and stroked Reggie's tiny ears. Some things were just not meant to be.


	12. Chapter 11

Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

**Chapter 11

* * *

**

January 13, 2004

SVU Squadroom

* * *

Upon their last phone call, Casey Novak and Philippe Ludont had decided to save time on their respective cases by simply combining them. This would be cause for less paperwork and possibility of a harsher punishment, especially if the judge knew Bruno was not cooperating with the French detectives investigating the double homicide/kidnaping case he was being charged with.

And it was because of this that Zita, Antoine, and John were on their way to the airport to pick up Monsieur Ludont at seven o'clock in the morning. True to her work, Zita had gone to sleep that night, but it hardly constituted as a deep sleep, so she sat in the back – well, _lay_ in the back, really – while John drove. It had not been easy for her to give up her keys, but neither man would allow her to drive with the kind of sleep deprivation that causes one to almost fall asleep in one's breakfast.

As it turned out, Ludont's plane was an hour late and they barely made it to court on time; that part of the trial went off without a hitch, however, and the prosecution went home relatively happy with the proceedings.

Everyone on the prosecution's side except Zita Plouvin, which was strange, as she had not been forced to testify yet.

"I'm not willing to let her take the stand."

"Zita, she's one of the few maids willing to talk."

"No, Case. She's already had her childhood stolen from her – kidnaped, emotionally, physically, maybe even sexually abused. She's not strong enough to rehash that in court."

"And what's happened to Ani is a tragedy, but the only way to make it right is to win this case. She knew what was going on and she saw physical evidence. She's a key witness, like it or not."

Zita sighed. So much was riding on this case. The French double rape/homicide, the murder of her mother, the near-murder of Xavier, the abuse of the estates' staffs, the abuse she and her mother suffered, the kidnaping to Anna-Marie Delacroix – they all needed to be avenged, preferably in court. "As long as I'm with her when you prep her and when she's in the courtroom, especially the stand."

"Deal. Can you take me to talk to her?"

Zita grabbed her coat and keys. "Sure. I was going to pick her up today, anyway."

As the duo reached the precinct doors, John, who had been in Cragen's office, called them back. "Zita, are you busy?"

"Kinda, why?"

"Can you reschedule?"

She looked over at Casey, who replied with disconcerting knowingness, "I can talk to her later."

Zita nodded and turned back to John. "What's going on?"

"I'll explain on the way." he said, motioning her towards the door.

"Are you going to tell me where I'm driving to?" Zita asked, unlocking the Bentley's door.

"Family courthouse."

She pulled out onto the street, honking at a car in front of her that had stopped short. "Are you planning on launching into your explanation now or will you keep me in suspense until I break into a homicidal rampage?"

"Zita," John began, looking for the words, trying to find a way to avoid his usual bluntness, "your grandfather is your legal custodian, but, as we both know, young people are not his cup of tea."

Her heart was pounding hard now, but she stayed silent.

John continued. "The truth is, Zita, you're like a daughter to me and there is no way I would willingly let someone, especially a man like your grandfather, take you away from me. If I had been able to marry your mother, this wouldn't be an issue; I'd have just adopted you then, but I don't really have that option anymore. Your grandfather has sent his lawyer as his representative and now he's requiring that you be present during the trial today for the verdict."

Zita had fallen into a minor state of shock. She had never, in a million years, expected this. A little miffed at not being told about this trial, she answered, "So, how is it going so far?"

"I'm not sure. The judge was kind of vague."

"Who's your lawyer? Or are you going it alone?"

"My nephew came up from Boston. He's a grad student to Harvard."

"Huh." said Zita, pulling into the parking lot. "Hope he's good." she left it at that, knowing that John understood what she was really thinking. Going back to Ian O'Malley was the last thing she wanted and probably the first step on the way to an arranged marriage like her mother's.

* * *

Family Courtroom

4:00 p.m.

* * *

The hearing was not going well. 

"I'm sorry, Detective Munch. You seem to have been a good parent for Miss Plouvin, especially during this difficult time, but Mrs. Plouvin's will dictates that Zita should fall into Mr. O'Malley's custody. His job is safer than that of a police officer, his finances are better, and high-town Dublin is a better place to be brought up in. He's also family. That's a lot stacked against you."

John knew better than to answer. His temper had never really been all that well-disciplined, and if he blew his top at the judge, he would lose Zita for sure.

The judge continued. "And as such, I believe that it would be best for Miss Plouvin to be placed under the custody of –"

"Wait!"

All attention turned to the blue-eyed, brown-haired girl now standing behind John Munch.

Zita stepped into the aisle. "Permission to approach the bench, Your Honor?"

Intrigued and surprised, the judge nodded. "Step up."

Zita waited as the bailiff opened the gate leading to the open space in front of the bench.

Ian O'Malley's lawyer, a thin, rat-like man in a grey suit and thick-rimmed glasses, stood up. "Objection! This is clearly a ploy by Mister Munch to get custody! She can't do this!"

Zita beat the judge in responding. "Listen, O'Grady, I've had it up to _here _with you. I'm a Harvard graduate – I know American law. Butt out!"

The courtroom was filled with quiet snickers from everyone but O'Grady – even from the judge and bailiff. "Proceed, Miss Plouvin."

Zita stood before the judge, looking a lot smaller to John than she sounded to the courtroom. "Your Honor, I'm an American citizen by birth and less than a year away from being eighteen – a legal adult here in the States. My grandfather never had any interest in me before now, which makes it seem that he has an ulterior motive."

O'Grady interrupted. "Objection!"

"Over-ruled!" exclaimed both Zita and the judge, simultaneously.

John smiled. Ordinarily, Zita's answering would have cost her her speech before the judge, but it seemed that her spunk was winning him over.

Zita continued. "John Munch has been an exemplary father and I can find witnesses to prove it. He was also almost engaged to my mother before her arranged marriage to Pierre Plouvin and completely engaged to my mother at the time of her death. Had she not been murdered by an employee of the man my grandfather forced my mother to marry, John Munch would have been my step-father and legally responsible for me anyway. I understand the verdict Your Honor was about to make, but I ask for a chance to change it."

"How so?"

"I request that Your Honor and his court give me one month to find a blood relative living in the United States that will apply for custody. As an American citizen, I believe forcing me to leave the country to be unjust."

O'Grady stood again. "_Objection!_"

"Over-ruled! Sit down and shut up before I hold you in contempt, sir!" the judge exclaimed. He had begun to regret his decision to hear this case. He turned back to Zita. "Young lady, I am going to grant your request. If you can find a blood relative that meets this court's standards for custody by February thirteenth, I will grant custody."

O'Grady nearly fell out of his chair, but did not say anything. The last thing he wanted to tell Ian O'Malley was "Oh, the case is in jeopardy and, by the way, please send five hundred dollars to bail me out of jail for contempt because I spoke without raising my hand first."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Zita said and went back to her seat next to Fin.

"This court is adjourned until February thirteenth, two thousand - four."

_BANG!! _The judge winced as his gavel echoed loudly through the room and left, muttering something about earplugs and sound boards in the courtroom.

John jumped up from his seat and grabbed Zita in a ferocious hug, spinning her around and kissing her forehead. The day was looking up.

* * *

"Are you sure about this? It's a longshot; I don't want you to get your hopes up just to get them dashed against the rocks." 

The Bentley's wheels crunched on the medical examiner's office's parking lot. Fin, deciding that this as an exclusively-family issue, had declined to accompany John and Zita to the ME's, heading back to the stationhouse to report on the events of the custody battle.

"You're my best bet. If you trace back exactly nine months from my birthday, you'll find that my mom was still with you. To my knowledge, there's no other blood relatives in the States."

She parked the car, but John kept her from departing. "Zita, what if I'm not your father? What are you going to do if your grandfather tries to marry you off?"

"Don't worry, Dad. Even if you're not my father, I"ll be back in less than a year. And you'd be surprised to see the many ways I could get out of being forced into a marriage I don't want."

* * *

McGafferty's Pub

9:00 p.m.

* * *

The case against Bruno was proving to be tougher than Casey and Ludont had planned. Benoît had arrived while they had been discussing the case over take-out at Casey's office, informing them that he and Bruno were entering a not-guilty-by-mental-disease-or-defect plea the next day on the grounds that Pierre had allegedly brainwashed Bruno into unconditional obedience, forcing him to commit his crimes, just as unconditional obedience was required when he served in the French military. 

"So he blames his crimes on the military and his employer. How original." grumbled Casey into her fifth shot of something she no longer remembered the name of.

The trial had the possibility of going sour but that was not the thing that had put her in a bad mood. Xavier had proved to be particularly stupid that evening to announce her extreme aggravation at the French defense attorney. Relax and take a day off, indeed! What did he know about law? What did he know at all? She had a case to win!

But the concern in his voice made her feel guilty now. She had been stressing out lately, as this was such a high-profile case. He had asked her to take fewer hours at the office because of the pressure headaches she had been getting, but she had refused due to the extensive media push for her to get the case resolved. She winced at the memory of the words she had used on him that day to tell him off.

She whipped out her phone. An apology was in order.

This would have been a good idea if not for the fact that, had she been standing, she would have fallen down drunk. The phone rang a few times, then cut to the answering machine.

"_You have reached John and Zita. We've apparently missed you, so if you leave your name and number, we'll call you back when we can. Thanks." _Beep

"John, it's Casey, pick up, I know you're there; I need to talk to you!" Casey slurred. _John? _her mind asked, _Try 'Xavier.'_ But she was too far gone to listen to her mind She continued. "John, I'm sorry I hurt you; I don't want it to end this way. I love you. Please, call me back!"

She hung up, tear of hurt and frustration rolling down her face, not-so-blissfully unaware that the call-back message left by Zita and John had caused her to say the wrong name, that voices don't sound so slurred on answering machines, and the enormous problems both of those factors would bring.

* * *

John and Zita's Townhouse

9:45 p.m.

* * *

"I can't believe you got a _Spiderman_ Band-aid." 

"What? I've always liked Spiderman. How come you got a plain one?"

"Because I'm seventeen, not eight."

John, Zita, and Luc had gone out with the Antoines for a late dinner after the paternity test. John and Zita were slightly disappointed that Warner had not been able to start the test immediately. Thirty bodies had been found in a vacant lot a week before and there was no way she would be able to get on it that night, bough she assured them that, finished identifying the cadavers or not, she would have the results before the one-month deadline.

"Age has nothing to do with it. You'll regret not having Spidey when you need a superhero."

"Uh-huh. You need to go to bed, Dad."

John tossed his coat onto the sofa and undid his cuff buttons. "I think you're right. Check the answering machine before you go to bed, will you?"

"Sure. Your pajamas are in the dryer. I tossed 'em in there this morning," Zita said, flopping down on John's recliner to wait for Luc to get home from the movie he and two of the French officers had gone to see. She turned on the TV, flipping through the channels, settling on the last fifteen minutes of a House episode, hissing "Yessss!" when it was announced that it was part of a two-day marathon. House had quickly become her favorite show since she came to the States and had managed to draw her into an addiction fiercer than Greg's addiction to vicadin.

* * *

January 14, 2004

1:00 a.m.

* * *

"You're not in bed yet?" Luc asked, coming in and leading down on the back of the recliner, causing it to fall back into a horizontal position. 

Zita threw popcorn at him. "You messed up my chair, you dork."

Luc moaned when the block of commercials ended and he saw what show she was watching. "Oh, no. Not _House_ again."

"Oh, yes. _House_ again." she answered, grinning broadly.

"I'm going to bed. I can't stand this show."

"Fine. Go then. I see how it is." she replied in a mock-wounded tone.

"I was hopin' it'd sink in eventually."

Luc left the room, another couple pieces of popcorn hitting his back, and headed towards his room, passing through the kitchen.

"Hey, there's a message on your machine. Want me to check it?"

"Sure."

Luc pushed the button on the machine and listened with growing disbelief and shock.

"_John, it's Casey, pick up, I know you're there; I need to talk to you! John, I'm sorry I hurt you; I don't want it to end this way. I love you. Please, call me back!_"

Luc shook his head. He must have heard wrong. He played it again. No, the name Casey used was definitely "John." But Casey was going out with Xavier. Was it possible? Could Casey be going behind Xavier's back, and could John be low enough to help her? She seemed upset that John had broke it off, so maybe he had realized what he was doing and revealed that he had some decency. "Zita, you should hear this."

"Can it wait till a comercial?"

"I don't know. I doubt it."

Zita sighed in irritation and padded barefoot into the kitchen. "What is it?"

Luc pressed the button. "Listen to this."

Her jaw clenched tighter and red rose in her face as she listened. How could he? How could he betray Xavier like this? He had not done anything to him. How could Casey break Xavier's heart like this? How could John betray her and Bowan? Bowan had been in the grave for less than a month and John was already with Casey. How had she been so blind? It should have been so obvious.

After the message ended, Zita stood, staring silently at the black speakers.

Luc hazarded a question. "What're you gonna do?"

Zita's gaze never wavered. "Nothing tonight. I don't want to confront him when I might do or say something I'd regret."

"Are you a-"

"I'm fine, Luc. Go get some sleep."

"Are y-"

"I'm sure. There's nothing more to be done tonight."

Luc squeezed her shoulder and left, disappearing into the darkness of his room.

Zita stayed at the counter, her head in her hands. How could she have so terribly misjudged the man whom she had been living with since October? How could she have missed the fact that he was a sleaze?

And it was because of this mental beating she was giving herself that she did not hear the footsteps that came down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Zita, are you still up?"

_Gulp_. It was John. It looked like there would be a confrontation then, after all.

Zita turned around and leaned against the counter top in a way she hoped appeared nonchalant as a reply. "Though I don't know how you can sleep, after what you've been doing."

John was confused. "Zita, it's too early for riddles. What have I been doing?"

Zita punched the play button on the answering machine, harder than necessary.

John's expression morphed into a state of shock and even deeper confusion as he listened.

"_John, it's Casey, pick up, I know you're there; I need to talk to you! John, I'm sorry I hurt you; I don't want it to end this way. I love you. Please, call me back!_"

John was speechless for a couple seconds. "Zita, whatever's going through your head, I-"

"You know, it might not be all that bad if you were dating someone to fill the hole in your life that my mom left – I could understand that. You're still grieving and maybe someone else helps take the pain away for a while –"

"Zita -"

"But you go and start something with _Casey_, knowing full-well that she and Xavier were together? What has Xavier done to either of you to get you two to turn on him like this?"

"Zita, Casey and I haven't done anything! This is a mistake!"

"_The evidence is right in front of you!_ You can deny it all you want, but the evidence is right there. That's Casey's cell number and John's your name. Where's the way out for you?"

John sighed, "Zita, I know you don't believe me, but I haven't done anything."

"So, what, am I supposed to just take you at your word?"

"Yes. Zita, I have _never_ lied to you and I don't intend to. What reason would I . . ." he sighed again, "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?"

Zita rested her face in her hand. "I don't know. I . . . don't know. I'm going to bed."

She brushed past him, moving at a determined pace towards the stairs.

John called after her. "Zita?"

Half-way up the stairs, Zita turned around, the anger and hurt seeming to have left her face to be replaced by an emotionless stare. "Goodnight, John." she said quietly then turned back around and walked the rest of the way to her room.

John collapsed in a chair at the kitchen table. She had not called him "John" in days and he found that his first name on her lips hurt more than any bullet.

"Oh, Bowan." he whispered to the dark as twin tears rolled down his face. "Where are you?"


End file.
